But Who IS He?
by Fool Who Follows
Summary: Lestrade and co. get to know John a bit better. Gen, set shortly after ASIP. NOW WITH MOUSTACHE!MYCROFT IMAGE POSTED ON TUMBLR!
1. The Peacekeeper

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here but the story. Everything else belongs to ACD, the BBC and other people who aren't me.

13/07/12 – Now editing! Sorry for any extra alerts going out. Not really any major plot changes going on, just a few details to fit in with S2 cannon and some formatting issues. BUT THERE IS AT LAST A NEW CHAPTER! Thanks for your patience, guys.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

But Who IS He?

Lestrade and co. get to know John a bit better. Set shortly after ASIP.

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 1: The Peacekeeper

Greg Lestrade was having one of _those_ days. The kind when he got desperate enough to call in Sherlock Holmes, at the risk of his subordinate's resentment and, more often than not, his own sanity.

The crime scene was a dirty alley off a Soho backstreet, littered with rubbish and the stench of overfilled bins. The four storey buildings on either side made it feel like the bottom of a chasm; they'd had to break out the floodlights for illumination at ten thirty in the morning. Greg had to crane his neck uncomfortably to just to glimpse the narrow strip of heavy grey sky overhead.

The body wasn't a pretty sight in the overly harsh halogens, either. The overweight, balding middle aged man was naked, sprawled on his side in the mud between two overflowing dumpsters. Lestrade counted himself lucky that the gloom and filth were doing a sterling job at preserving the poor sod's modesty.

_The smell alone is giving me a headache without having to look at _that;_ and Sherlock's not even here yet. Although it could just as easily be Anderson and Donovan; judging from the frosty looks they're giving each other, they've split up. Again_.

The claustrophobic confines of the alley weren't helping the recently separated couple; every time they had to pass near each other both looked determinedly in the opposite direction. Anderson had tripped over the litter twice already. The tension was enough to make the _corpse_ uncomfortable; with Sherlock Holmes added to the mix, it was inevitable that there was going to be trouble.

Sherlock exchanged his usual insults with Sally before ducking eagerly under the police tape in that ridiculously dramatic coat, almost eclipsing the stockier man following him closely.

_Hang on… Isn't that the doctor he brought along on the serial suicides case? Whatsisname… Watson, wasn't it? Blimey; I thought he'dve been scared off by now. I bloody would be, if I didn't need his help so much._

"Ah, Lestrade," he practically purred, ignoring Donovan's best glare with practised indifference as his companion shot her an apologetic grimace. "I do hope you have something interesting for us…"

"Us? Sherlock, I called _you_," Lestrade protested, exasperatedly. "That doesn't mean you can just invite random people to my crime scenes…"

The Consulting Detective stopped short, whirling to glare down at the hapless policeman with his unnaturally intense grey- blue eyes. Not for the first time, Lestrade wished the man wasn't quite so ridiculously tall.

"Doctor Watson is my _colleague_," he said fiercely. "He's here because I need him here. If you don't want our help, Detective Inspector Lestrade, _DCI_ Gregson has been texting me about a case with distinct potential…"

_The manipulative bastard… he knows I'll do whatever it takes to get one over on Gregson since he beat me to the last promotion. At least this Watson bloke seems vaguely normal… well, compared to Sherlock, anyway_.

_On second thoughts, Sherlock Holmes is probably not the best measure of normality_.

"Oh… all right," he capitulated grudgingly. "But make sure he doesn't touch anything, will you?"

"I'm not five, Inspector; I'm not going to start mucking about with evidence," the doctor snapped back at him.

"See that you don't; or neither of you will be getting on another case any time soon," he warned, more in hope than expectation, as he led them to the dingy corner where the body had been found. "We've got a middle aged man, starkers, no ID, no obvious cause of death. Cleaner found him about an hour ago when she took the bins out from the dodgy nightclub at the other end of the alley. Said she only phoned us so she wouldn't have to trip over the body every day until they got emptied, and then her statement turned into a long and colourful rant about the council and how it's recycling policy is the root of all evil."

_Didn't seem the least bit upset about the experience; having to separate paper from plastic got more reaction from her than a dead body. Either she's somehow related to Sherlock, which going by her _Eastenders_ accent is highly unlikely, or this isn't the first corpse she's come across. Either way, she's definitely on the suspect list_.

Greg sighed heavily, knowing exactly what he was letting himself in for. "I need whatever you can give me."

Sherlock stalked around the body with infinite care, eyes roving incessantly over every detail, from the victim's eyelids to the vaguest impressions in the mud. Sometimes Lestrade half-expected to see little green symbols scrolling across his pupils. The magnifier emerged from a pocket and the Consulting Detective flicked his coat tails fastidiously away from the filthy ground as he crouched to look closer, paying particular attention to the corpse's hands.

"Well?" Greg asked wearily as Sherlock straightened with his customary grace, knowing from long experience that his faint smirk meant he'd just worked out the man's life history and was about to be both insufferably smug and very insulting to everyone else in his immediate vicinity.

"Not a great deal to be learned from a body in this state," Sherlock informed him with excessive casualness. "I can only deduce that he was a long distance lorry driver who has been working abroad recently. Heavy drinker, probably has a criminal record considering the number of scars on his knuckles from all the fist fights he's been involved in. He gave up smoking approximately three months ago, separated from his wife within the last year and has lost a significant amount of weight in a short space of time."

The smile on the doctor's face was frankly admiring as Sherlock made an inviting gesture and he crouched down beside the body to examine it for himself, as deft and gentle as if the man were still alive.

Anderson, who'd been in a thoroughly foul mood already, snorted, loud and mocking, from behind them. "And his mother has a miniature poodle, I'm sure," he spat contemptuously.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock's lips tightened with that special loathing he seemed to have for the forensics officer. _Oh, God… I do _not_ need this today_…

But just as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something blistering, Watson interrupted.

"You sound a bit croaky, Anderson," he said pleasantly, with a touch of professional concern. "D'you want me to take a quick look, in case you're coming down with something?"

"No, I do not!" Anderson protested vehemently. "This is a crime scene, not a walk in clinic. And I'm fine, thank you very much."

"I'd get a second opinion on that if I were you; I can tell from here that your breathing's all wrong. There's a lot of flu about at the moment; and it's always best to diagnose it early. You can go and see your GP if you don't trust my opinion."

"Wrong? How can breathing be wrong? Are you even a real doctor?" He asked suspiciously.

"Of course he is," Sherlock informed him, his eyes sliding to John's with the appreciative sparkle he usually saved for the really clever murderers. "And I have it on excellent authority that he's _very_ good."

Watson grinned back at what was clearly a private joke between them. Lestrade could only stare.

_Sherlock… joking? Sharing a joke with someone else instead of just pointing out how stupid they are? Have I accidentally stepped into some strange alternate dimension or is this blasted headache just making me see things?_

"All right, you lot; that's enough mucking about," he said sternly, sending a fierce glare at all three of them. "Let's hear it; how'd you work all that out?"

"Simple, Inspector; I observed," Sherlock replied with his usual condescension. "The right side of the face and the right forearm are significantly more heavily tanned than the left; which means he spends a lot of time driving with his arm sticking out of the window; you don't get that pattern any other way. Not possible that he could get that deep a tan in England at this time of year even if it were warm enough to wear a short sleeved shirt, so he's been driving abroad recently, and it must have been a fairly long drive to tan as darkly as that."

"That's ridiculous; for all you know, he could've hired a car on holiday…" Anderson sneered, but was immediately cut down.

"But if he had, the tan would have been more consistent across his body; no one goes on holiday and spends the whole time driving. You can clearly see the tan line above his right elbow and around the neck, but his shoulders, back, and legs are all pasty white; he hasn't been sunbathing. If he'd hired a foreign car the tan would also most likely have been heavier on the left arm, since more countries drive on the right side of the road and therefore the driver's seat is on the left. No, he drove a British vehicle abroad for a significant distance without taking any time to sun himself so driving is his profession, borne out by his less than athletic physique; lorry driver, obvious. Besides, he's an alcoholic going through a separation; he doesn't have the money to waste on holidays."

"And how'd you know that?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? Beer gut, excessive redness of the nose and cheeks where the capillaries have burst, slightly jaundiced skin tone where it isn't tanned; clear sign of a failing liver. Faint mark from a wedding ring on the left hand but it's been removed for a while because the pale skin underneath has almost darkened to match the rest of his complexion. So, separated but likely not divorced yet; it's usually a protracted process."

"And you can tell he's given up smoking because… what, he smells of nicotine chewing gum?" Lestrade asked sarcastically.

"No; I can tell from his fingernails."

"His fingernails?" The doctor asked curiously.

"It's surprising what one can learn from fingernails, John. They provide an excellent record of a person's recent activities. Look closely at the index finger of his right hand; you can see that the most recent growth of nail is clear, but the older nail above it is stained orange by cigarette smoke. The growth rate of finger and toe nails in a man of this age is about two centimetres per year, and the pale section is approximately five millimetres long; ergo, he gave up smoking around three months ago."

"That is astonishing, Sherlock," John told him, looking at the detective like he was the most incredible thing he'd ever seen. The consultant actually seemed to be basking in the praise.

"It's guesswork," Anderson snapped derisively. "He's nothing but a freak that uses random details and stupid theories to make up so-called evidence and then calls it science!"

"I do not _make it up_, Anderson; just because your _minuscule_ excuse for a mind cannot grasp the concept of observation…"

"Sherlock, can you argue later?" Watson interrupted yet again, peering more closely at the man's chest. "I think I've got an idea on the cause of death."

"Only one? At least four have occurred to me."

"It was asphyxiation," Anderson sneered. "You only have to look at the cyanosis in his fingers, if you're not too busy studying his manicure..."

"I wasn't asking you, Anderson," Sherlock snapped. "You know I don't like you talking in my vicinity."

"Well, that makes two of us."

"Good, glad you understand at last. You can speak again when I've solved the case. John?"

"Well, I'm not really an expert in forensic pathology… but I don't think he suffocated."

Sherlock smiled. "Go on," he encouraged.

_He looks almost… proud? What, is he trying to train up his new mate into another Consulting Detective? God help us… One is more than enough trouble_.

"Well, the blue tinge to the nail beds does suggest oxygen deprivation, but there's not a mark on the face or neck; no haemorrhaging in the eyes, and the hyoid bone in his throat is intact and correctly located. Could have been drugs or poison, of course, but there's usually some sign of peristaltic reaction to ingesting toxins."

"Peri- what?" Lestrade asked. _Of course it was too much to ask for a friend of Sherlock's to be able to hold a conversation about a body that I actually understood_.

"The body's first reaction to poisoning is to empty the stomach. I can smell alcohol but no vomit on him, so unless someone decided to brush his teeth with Scotch post-mortem, this man probably didn't react to something he ate or drank."

"Very good, John," Sherlock praised, almost warmly. "What else?"

_I don't think I've ever heard him congratulate someone else at a crime scene and mean it before. Blimey; he must really like this Watson character_…

"I think there's a more long term cause for the cyanosis; did you notice this small surgical scar between the sixth and seventh ribs?"

"Of course."

"That's a typical location for a lung biopsy, and it's relatively fresh; eight, maybe ten weeks ago. Ex- smoker, heavy drinker, you said he'd lost a lot of weight rapidly… Lung cancer isn't unlikely."

Greg, currently on his fourth attempt to give up, shuddered at the thought.

"Plenty of lung cancer patients also experience heart problems, because the heart has to work harder to get enough oxygen to the body. Could've easily been a heart attack."

"Well done, Doctor Watson. That is indeed a plausible solution."

"Really?"

"Why so surprised, Doctor?" Sherlock drawled.

"I expected you to see a wrinkle on his left earlobe or something that proves he was bitten by an exotic spider. Heart attack's a bit dull for you."

"Very nearly everything is dull to me. And don't be an idiot, John; it's clearly far too cold out here for any kind of tropical arachnids. Even if it weren't, the swelling and inflammation of the puncture wound would be impossible for even Anderson to miss." He cast a nasty look at the fuming forensics expert. "Myocardial infarction will very likely prove to be the cause of death, although I suspect that it was chemically induced; most likely by an anticholinergic toxin, judging by the slight flush to the skin and the excessively dilated pupils. But the main interest is in the path the body took to get here."

"What d'you mean, the path?" Lestrade asked. "You think he decided to take a midnight stroll in his birthday suit and then keeled over?"

"No, of course not! Use your eyes; he didn't walk into this alley. Just look at his feet; there's mud all over his legs, ankles, the side of the foot, but not a trace on the soles. He was already dead when he was carried in; would have taken at least two people, he weighs, what, fifteen stone ten despite the weight loss. And look how the body is positioned; out of view of anyone until they're right on top of it. Notice these streaky dragging patterns in the dirt around him; there's still a few left despite your lot's blundering around the crime scene. How many bruises do you see on the body, John?"

"Err… next to nothing…"

"Exactly. And what's the easiest way to carry a corpse without bruising it?"

"Well, a stretcher, ideally, but that's not something everyone has lying around."

"But what they do have lying around is…" Sherlock practically skipped to the nearest reeking bin and tugged at the edge of a tarpaulin that had been shoved into the side.

"A tarp? You think they used the tarp to carry the body, like all the rolled up carpets you always see on telly?" Anderson asked incredulously.

"Criminals watch telly too," John commented, with a wry glance at his friend. "And if you haven't got a stretcher, good strong fabric's the next best thing. People aren't easy to carry."

"Well, you'd know, Doctor," Sherlock replied. "The challenge will be working out where he was carried from; and what he was poisoned with, for which unfortunately, we shall have to await the toxicology reports. If we are extremely lucky, they might even be correct."

"Our results are always correct, Freak!" Anderson protested. "You think you're so bloody clever; you try handling six cases at once and doing all the official paperwork that comes with them…"

"Certainly. All of them would be solved within twenty-four hours and leave me plenty of time to improve your lab with the fly larvae experiment John won't let me do at home."

"We've had this conversation, Sherlock. Baths are for bathing in, not for breeding maggots on human torsos."

Lestrade blinked. _Did he really just say that in the same tone my mum used when I put frogspawn in her favourite vase as a kid?_

"Only because you threatened to tell Mrs Hudson if I actually did it," the consultant replied, somewhat resentfully.

"'Course I bloody would; I draw the line at living in a flat that smells of rotting flesh, no matter how cheap the rent is."

"You two... live together?" Lestrade managed. _Sherlock having a friend is odd enough; the idea of Sherlock having a _boyfriend_ boggles the mind_.

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm Sherlock's _flatmate_," he said with emphasis. "_Just _his flatmate."

"Are you serious?" Anderson interrupted with incredulous disgust. "You really live with that freak? Better get out now before he starts experimenting on _your _torso; he's the type to keep random body parts from his victims to experiment on."

"Don't be ridiculous, Anderson; I occasionally use the leftover teaching materials from Bart's for experimental purposes," Sherlock informed him irritably; and then his eyes took on a distinctly calculating expression. "Have you ever considered donating your body to medical science, by any chance?"

Anderson's eyes widened. "Not any bloody more, Freak!"

"Pity. Dissecting your brain could greatly expand science's understanding of idiots."

"Lestrade, you heard what he just said! How can you possibly allow this psychopath to threaten a police officer on my own bloody crime scene and do nothing about it?"

"It wasn't a threat, Anderson; that was what we mentally functional people like to call an 'idea'." Sherlock sneered. "I realise that this may be a foreign concept, but do try to keep up. And it's not as if you need it. Tell me, is it physically possible for you to use that scrap of grey matter between your ears or is it just there to think up new excuses for your wife while you sneak off to see Sally? Although it seems she's finally had enough of you too." He raised his voice a little. "Congratulations on an excellent decision, Sergeant Donovan."

"Piss off, Freak," she called back from the tape, having made sure to keep as far away from Anderson as she could without actually leaving the crime scene.

"With pleasure. Come on, John; this will be twice as difficult now the police have blundered over all the evidence."

"We do not blunder!" Anderson shouted after him, as the lanky consultant strode away, eyes fixated on every subtlest undulation of the sludgy black mud that coated the alley floor.

John, however, hesitated beside the livid man.

"Look, Anderson; the whole world knows you can't stand Sherlock," he said, matter of fact but not unkind. "It also knows there's nothing you can do to stop him turning up at crime scenes. Is it really such a leap to think about staying out of his way, or at least shutting up and letting him get on with it so you can get rid of him sooner?"

Lestrade's jaw dropped. _Is it really possible that Sherlock's flatmate is trying to be nice to Anderson? Because if Watson's going to try and keep the peace between them, I might as well get him packed off to the nuthouse now_…

SHSHSHSHSH

This story started out as a one- shot, mutated into a series of them and now I think it's going to be an actual case fic. Updates will probably be a bit slow until I've worked out what exactly is going to happen; plus deductions are frighteningly intricate things that take at least three draughts to get right. Hope mine read as believable; and if not, constructive criticism is always welcome.


	2. Not His Date

Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, alerted or favourited the previous chapter. I'm so glad you liked it; deductions are really hard to write.

This one is a lot less case-based and far too short, but it just seemed to break nicely here. The next one will be longer, I promise.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 2: Not His Date

Keith Anderson considered himself an intelligent, well educated, successful man. He had a comfortable home, a wealthy, oblivious wife and a willing mistress who was both younger and better looking than him. He was well respected by his colleagues and everyone knew there was no one better at precise and scientific scrutiny of crime scenes.

Well, almost everyone.

Keith enjoyed his work. He appreciated the methodical nature of evidence gathering, the collecting of every possible clue and then the analysis of every meticulous detail to form a clear picture of what had occurred and identify the culprit.

Unless, of course, Sherlock Holmes turned up, took one glance at the crime scene and loudly declaimed everyone around him as an idiot while spouting unnervingly accurate deductions on the slimmest and flimsiest of evidence.

_There is something wrong with the man; there has to be. No one can be that clever; it's just not right, not natural. And bloody annoying, to have all my precise and painstaking work torn apart in seconds by a psychopath who treats me like I'm less intelligent than the dirt on his shoes_.

_The thing about Holmes that gets to me most is his condescension, like he's honouring us with his presence by disrupting our work. The way he treats me like the thick kid with the runny nose as if I'm not a fully qualified forensic scientist with years of experience, who has solved plenty of difficult crimes without his help, thank you very much_.

_At least Sally sees that I'm better than the freak; or she did, until Linda insisted I be home for dinner instead of 'working late' again. I don't see what the big problem is; she knows I'm not going to leave my wife, so why's she so upset when I have to cancel a date? It's just a few laughs and a quick shag between us anyway, nothing serious. All those things she was shouting at me were completely unjustified; it's not like she doesn't know I'm married_.

_And of course, the day after we've had a big row we have to get called to the same crime scene, and Lestrade in his _infinite _wisdom decides to call in our favourite psychopath._

_Sherlock Holmes is the individual I least wanted to see today. And he's brought a friend… well, a flatmate. How any potential flatmate of his can possibly fail to run screaming from the room five minutes after meeting him I do not know. The doctor won't last long, at any rate; I'll have to set up a sweepstake in the lab. I give him two weeks_.

_And after Sherlock had finished thoroughly insulting me, threatening to dissect my brain and stealing my crime scene, his new flatmate, who I have met twice and barely spoken to, comes out with the suggestion that I should _shut up and stay out of his way…

The combination pushed Anderson over the edge of reason and he saw red.

SHSHSHSHSH

Sally Donovan was not having a good day; and she believed in spreading it around. As a result, even Lestrade was watching her warily, as if he expected her to start screaming and throwing things at any moment.

_Bloody Keith and his stupid bloody cow of a wife! Why doesn't he just admit he can't stand the bitch and leave her? Why does he have to bother with marriage counselling when it's clearly over between them? It's not like they have kids or anything; why should he stay with her just because she was there first?_

_And _why_, in the name of all that's _holy_, should he stand _me_ up because _her_ lardarse sister's coming to dinner?_

_I have had it with him; either he can leave Linda or forget about getting back with me. And this time I'm not going to give in; it's over_.

_I should have known not to get involved with someone I work with. The problem with being a copper is that you never get a chance to meet anyone outside of the job, so you're stuck with office romances. And if you happen to work mostly on murders, any office romances can't help but turn into crime scene romances, which really aren't very romantic. Unless, of course, you actually prefer intestines to roses_.

_If Sherlock Holmes ever had a date, I bet he'd try to bring them to an interesting murder_.

As if the mere thought of his name had summoned him, the lanky Consulting Detective unfolded himself gracefully from a black cab with that unsettling eagerness he always had when he arrived at a crime scene.

_Oh, just perfect_, she thought, with savage bitterness. _Exactly what I needed today; the DI's favourite local serial killer come to make us all look like idiots_.

And then, astonishingly, a second figure slid out of the taxi, although with considerably less elan.

_That's the Doctor, the one from the Hope case…_ _Bloody hell_… _how'd Sherlock 'psycho' Holmes manage not to scare him off the first time?_

"Good morning, Sally," Sherlock said cheerfully as he approached the crime scene tape, the shorter man trailing along behind him. His nostrils flared slightly. "Oh, and this time you've even managed to use your own toiletries. Well done."

"This is a new low, even for you, Freak," she all but snarled, her lip curled in disgust. "I can't believe even Sherlock Holmes would bring a _date_ to a crime scene."

"Well, you keep bringing Anderson…"

"I am _not_ his date!" The doctor protested, his voice rising in irritation. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"People are idiots, John; I'm certain I've told you so before," Sherlock replied coolly. "I suddenly appear with a companion and their pathetic lack of imagination does the rest."

Sally eyed the unassuming man suspiciously. "If you're not his date, why are you turning up at crime scenes with him?"

"Um… moral support," he replied, a touch sheepishly.

"Moral support?" She repeated incredulously. "Since when has a 'high functioning sociopath' needed moral support?"

"John wasn't specific about who was supporting whom; but thank you, Sally. I had no idea you thought so highly of my morals. Where's Lestrade?"

_Does that… did he just mean that Sherlock was supporting… no… can't be… They're laughing at me, that must be it; there must be some inside joke I'm not getting. No way would Sherlock Holmes ever try to support anyone_.

"What's it to you?" She demanded, infuriated as ever by his obvious delight that someone had been murdered, providing him with a few hours entertainment. "I don't even know why you bother to turn up, you psycho…"

"I would have thought it were obvious even to you, Sergeant Donovan, but then I do occasionally overestimate the intelligence of the Neanderthal masses; it's so difficult to think down to your level. I am here because Detective Inspector Lestrade wants me here."

"Well, I want you to crawl away and die; so it looks like we can't always get what we want."

"My, my, Sally; we are aggressive today. Has Anderson stood you up again?"

"Sherlock," the Doctor said, with a hint of warning.

"What? I'm allowed _some_ fun."

"Fun, yes. Antagonising people with the power to keep you off crime scenes, no. And I'm sick of falling over your experiments."

"It was only a _pig's_ brain, I've told you before."

"It was on the stairs; and I have a bad leg, in case you hadn't noticed."

_A _brain?_ And I thought eyeballs in the microwave were bad. I have got to get these two away from me before I start to catch whatever mental illness they have; because Sherlock's clearly infected this poor sod_.

"I needed the air to circulate as freely as possible to test the tissue oxidation levels," the lanky consultant insisted. "And there's nothing wrong with your leg."

"You try telling it that on a rainy morning," the doctor responded dryly.

"You know what? I don't want to know." Sally held up the police tape for them to duck under. "Go and bother the DI if you want; just stay the hell away from me, the pair of you."

"Thank you, Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock said, excessively politely, as he accepted the offer. John made an apologetic 'you know how he is' kind of face at her before he followed.

_How did the freak manage to hook in a normal bloke to follow him around? How can he stand it? Then again, Sherlock did call him a doctor; maybe he's a shrink doing a study on psychopaths_…

Sally tried her best to ignore Sherlock's display of freakishness as he deduced the life history of the victim with evident relish. She kept her eyes focussed on the other side of the tape until she heard Anderson exclaim angrily, much louder than was appropriate for a crime scene.

"Just who the _hell_ d'you think you are?" He demanded angrily.

_Sounds like Sherlock's managed to hit a nerve; I haven't heard Keith sound that pissed off since… well, the last time he saw the Freak. Turns out he does have his uses, after all_.

The next thing she heard was a smack, closely followed by a high pitched shriek.

Sally spun instinctively to see a thoroughly bizarre tableau arranged behind her.

Anderson was lying flat on his back in the filthy mud of the alley; even from a distance she could see the blood streaming from his face as he reached protectively for his nose. John was crouching with his back against the nearby wall, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscles standing out in his neck. His tanned skin looked deathly grey in the harsh artificial lights. Lestrade and every other officer who'd witnessed the incident were all staring at him, jaws dropped.

Sherlock Holmes was nowhere in sight.

_OK; I was wrong. John Watson isn't normal; he's just very good at hiding it_.

SHSHSHSHSH

Let me know what you thought.


	3. The Unbroken Nose

Sorry! I'm so sorry this has taken so long to get done. Real life got a bit hectic for a couple of weeks; and it's not going to get much better in the near future, either. I am going to do my best to keep updating regularly, but it's probably going to be a bit slow.

As always, immense thanks go out to everyone who has read, favourited or reviewed this story.

Author's note over with, you're probably wondering exactly why John hit Anderson…

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 3: The Unbroken Nose

Lestrade resisted the urge to close his eyes and step back as his forensic scientist reacted to John's suggestion. Anderson's expression had turned murderous, as his foul Sherlock-and-Donovan-induced temper found a convenient target in the bland features of John Watson. _Oh, God; this is not going to be pretty…_

"Just who the _hell_ d'you think you are?" Keith spat furiously, reaching out to grab the shorter man and prevent him following Sherlock, who had already found some invisible trail leading out of the alley and vanished.

When his fingers closed roughly on the Doctor's left shoulder, the reaction he provoked was rather less predictable.

Watson's gasp was almost silent. In a single smooth, efficient movement he shifted his weight and used his left leg to sweep Anderson's out from under him even as his right fist ploughed into the man's face. The forensics expert let out an undignified little scream as he was dropped forcefully onto his back. The sludgy black mud that coated the ground squelched unpleasantly at the impact.

John, in contrast, staggered backwards, right hand moving to protect his left shoulder even as his face contorted in silent agony. His back hit the brick wall of the alley and he slid down it into a crouch, seemingly completely unaware of his surroundings.

The surrounding police officers could only stare for a moment at the unexpected event, before their years of training and experience kicked in.

"Bloody hell, John!" Lestrade exclaimed. "What did you do that for?"

There was no response. John simply sat, his features ashen in the harsh spotlights. He suddenly seemed to have aged ten years as he breathed harshly through his teeth, eyes screwed shut.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sally demanded harshly, hurrying over from the police line digging a packet of tissues out of her pocket. She knelt beside her ex- boyfriend, tipping his head gently to prevent him swallowing the blood flowing freely from his nose. "You're as mental as the freak!"

"John Watson!" Lestrade shouted, almost into the doctor's face, but there was still no indication that he'd heard. "Something's not right here," he said uneasily, pulling out his phone.

"Well of course it's not right!" Donovan sounded outraged. _Looks like it's not as over between her and Keith as she makes out._ "Someone arrest that nutcase before he assaults anyone else!"

A couple of PCs stepped towards the prone figure cautiously. _Oh, Christ_…

"Don't be stupid, Donovan!" Lestrade countermanded her as he scrolled through his contacts. "Unless anyone actually _wants _to put down in the arrest report that all of us allowed two members of the public access to the scene of a murder?" _Thereby ending the careers of everyone present, especially me._

The PCs glanced at one another in alarm and then took a simultaneous step back as he waited impatiently for the call to be answered.

"What is it now, Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded in irritation, not bothering with a greeting. "I've already told you everything that can be deduced from the scene…"

"Your _colleague_ just punched Anderson. Get your arse back here, now!"

The phone went dead. _Typical. I really hope that means he's coming._

In fact, it took barely a minute for Sherlock to reappear, looking as animated as he always did on arriving at a crime scene. His grey eyes swept the alley, clearly calculating probabilities and angles in his head. When they passed over Anderson's bloodied face, a definite smirk twisted his lips.

And then he saw John's expression. The consulting detective was instantly furious.

"Anderson _touched_ John's _shoulder?"_ Sherlock looked very much as if he wanted to punch the man himself. The DI's jaw dropped.

_I've seen Sherlock Holmes in every possible variety of anger and irritation; and in five years, not once has he ever looked like that. He actually seems… upset_.

"How the hell did you know that?" Greg asked, still staring at Sherlock as if he'd suddenly sprouted antlers.

"Oh, don't be dull, Lestrade! John doesn't turn his back on an argument and Anderson is right handed; if they were facing each other and Anderson reached out, of course he'd touch John's left shoulder." He dropped into a crouch beside his flatmate, careful not to get too close to him.

"Ambulance, Doctor Watson?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Anderson managed thickly, from behind a large wad of bloodstained tissue. "I barely touched him; if anyone needs an ambulance, it's me!"

"You _barely touched_ a recently healed and extremely serious bullet wound, Anderson, so shut up and bleed quietly," the detective all but snarled. Despite his mouth's proximity to John's ear, the doctor still made no indication that he'd heard.

_A bullet wound? This bloke? Oh, please, God, tell me Sherlock didn't shoot him_…

Sherlock moved his most penetrating stare over John's face, mapping every line in such detail that Lestrade began to feel uncomfortable. It seemed almost… intimate. And then he transferred his gaze to the left hand trembling in John's lap, and his expression cleared, as if the mystery was solved.

"Captain Watson!" He called sharply, almost a bark.

_Captain? John's a _soldier?_ I thought he said he was a doctor!_

And finally, John responded.

"How'd… How'd you know my rank?" He managed, from between clenched teeth.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered simply. "Don't worry, I haven't read your service record."

"Good. Most of it's classified."

"Please. As if that's ever stopped me. Diagnosis?"

"Dislocated clavicle. 'S a bit delicate these days."

"What treatment would you recommend?"

"Bloody big dose of painkillers and a good shove. Need to check for fractures first. You'll have to help me get a look, but for God's sake _don't_ move my arm."

With greater care than Lestrade had believed him capable of, Sherlock pushed aside John's coat and started on his shapeless beige cardigan.

"Bugger your bloody shoulder!" Donovan exclaimed, a touch hysterically. "I think you broke Keith's nose!"

"'S not broken, Donovan," John answered her tightly. "I would've felt the cartilage give. Stick an ice pack on it and take some paracetamol; it'll be fine in a couple of weeks when the bruising's faded."

He broke off in a hiss of pain as Sherlock finally drew the fabric of his shirt back over his injury.

Every eye was immediately drawn to the terrible scar that marred his otherwise pasty shoulder, now grossly distorted and bruising rapidly around the collarbone that jutted unnaturally beneath the skin.

"Sodding hell…" Lestrade managed, horrified, trying to restrain the nausea rising in his gut. "I'm calling that ambulance."

"Don't bother," John told him, exploring the damage delicately with the fingertips of his right hand. "'S not broken; I can pop it back in. The sooner, the better."

"You said you needed painkillers first," said Sherlock, oddly solicitous.

"Yes, well. In an ideal world." With a grimace, John shifted slightly, bracing himself against the wall. "Lestrade, come and hold my right side, would you? I need to stay as still as possible."

"Are you insane? Just go to the bloody hospital!"

"Spend four hours in A and E and then need another bloody surgery because the swelling's too bad to get the bone back in?" John replied acerbically. "No thanks. Just hold on tight; it won't work otherwise."

"You really are a nutter, Watson," Lestrade informed him, giving in regardless. _He knows what he's doing; and I can't say I blame the poor bastard for wanting to avoid going to hospital_.

"But a nutter with a medical degree. Sherlock, take my left arm. When I tell you, pull it straight as hard as you can."

_Why am I doing this again?_ Lestrade thought to himself, as he knelt in the filthy alley bracing Watson with an arm around his waist. The doctor's own right hand was positioning itself gingerly over the bulge of bone in his shoulder as Sherlock took a careful but firm grasp of his left arm.

"Right," Watson said firmly. "On three. One, two, three."

The sharp click of bone was clearly audible to the Inspector as John jerked in his grasp, only a strangled grunt passing his lips.

"That sounded bloody painful," he said doubtfully, as he released his grip on the doctor. "Did it work?"

"The acromioclavicular joint is correctly located, but there could be a nerve or blood vessel trapped," Sherlock answered him absently, still studying John with that oddly focussed expression. "Judging from the scarring and the ease of dislocation, I imagine the bullet seriously damaged at least two major ligaments."

Lestrade stepped back to see the doctor's deft fingertips trace over his thankfully no longer deformed shoulder. The scarring was even more impressive from close range, especially since the area was already reddening and beginning to swell.

"Three," John corrected, voice still tight with pain and the beginnings of embarrassment. "But there's nothing trapped; thanks for the help. Borrow your scarf, Sherlock?"

Wordlessly, the consultant unwrapped it from his throat and helped John form it into a makeshift sling to immobilise his left arm.

"You sure you don't want me to ring that ambulance?" Lestrade asked, watching him wince as he buttoned his shirt one-handed.

"No point now. I'll take some painkillers and keep it in a sling for a few days; be fine in a week or two. How are you doing, Anderson?"

"How does it look like I'm doing?" The forensics officer groused. "Bloody awful, thank you so much."

John's pale cheeks flushed a little. "Look, Anderson, I'm sorry I hit you. I should've got past the battlefield reflexes by now."

"If you had, one of us would be dead," Sherlock reminded him. "And Anderson wouldn't be lying on the floor of an alley covered in excrement. Personally, I don't see the downside."

_Covered in_… Lestrade looked down to see the mud clinging to his trousers and gloved hands from where he'd knelt to help Watson and stood very quickly, attempting to remove the gloves without touching his skin. As he did so, he spotted Sally doing likewise. _She still cares if he gets punched, but not enough to kneel in poo. Sounds about right._

"Covered in what?" Anderson demanded, horrified, attempting to stand and barely making it to his elbows before slipping back again. Somehow, the squelch sounded worse the second time.

"If your nasal cavity were not filled with blood, I'm certain even you would be able to smell it, Anderson. The silt in this alley is primarily formed from mammalian waste; some of it human, but dogs, cats, urban foxes and of course rats have also contributed."

"Rat piss? I'm lying in _rat piss?"_

"Among other things. I'd take the rest of the day off and get cleaned up if I were you; rats do carry such a _fascinatingly _diverse range of diseases. Come on, John." He pulled his flatmate firmly to his feet by the right arm.

"Hang on, you can't just walk away!" Lestrade protested. "That was Assault on a Police Officer!"

"And if Anderson attempts to press charges, not only him but you, Sally, and everyone else on duty here will be lucky not to be dismissed on the spot. Besides, he started it. Can't stop; got a murderer to catch."

"That doesn't mean we can pretend it didn't happen! Sherlock!"

"You know where we live, Lestrade!"

_Sometimes,_ Greg mused, feeling his headache intensify as the unlikely pair vanished from sight, _I really wish I didn't_.

SHSHSHSHSH

I am in no way a medical professional, so I have no idea if what I described here is physically possible. I did do some research, but probably not enough. I'd be very interested to hear from anyone who knows more about it, though.

All comments welcome…


	4. The Friend

I think I'm going to have to start every single chapter with an apology for lateness, aren't I?

As always, huge thanks to everyone who took the time to read, favourite, alert or review my humble little story.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 4: The Friend

The first reaction of most police officers to finding a man who had been arrested numerous times calmly rifling through their desk in the bustling, high- security CID at New Scotland Yard at one thirty in the afternoon would be to shout for backup and attempt to arrest said individual again.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was not most police officers. And Sherlock Holmes was far from your average arrestee.

"What are you doing in here _this_ time?" Greg sighed wearily, putting down the fresh coffee he'd just got from the canteen. _It cannot be a good thing that I'm not even surprised any more._

"Searching for a pattern," was the distracted reply. "There's always a chance that our lorry driver is not the killer's first victim; I'm running a multi-field search across the Met's databases. You really should defrag your computer more often, by the way; it's positively glacial." A glance at the computer showed that there was indeed a search running; a more complex one than Lestrade himself could manage without a great deal of swearing and referring to the handbook, which did absolutely nothing to lessen his annoyance.

_Only Sherlock Holmes could break into my office, run a search on information he has no authority to access and then complain about my computer maintenance. The total, complete, utter_…

His tone sharpened into true irritation. "And that requires you to sort through all of my paperwork, does it?

"Well, waiting for the database search is mind-numbingly tedious; it was that or start experimenting with the remains of your lunch." He nodded towards the wastepaper bin, where a sandwich wrapper, apple core and a few discarded lettuce leaves skulked limply. "Tuna salad without mayonnaise; Mrs Lestrade must be nagging you about your cholesterol again."

The DI was far too used to his pointed personal comments to be distracted. "Sherlock, when I left my computer not ten minutes ago, I know for a fact that I logged out of the system, like I always do. And here I find you using it to search through restricted information. How many times have I told you that you can't just go around hacking into secure police files? I could get the sack if you got caught using my authorisation!"

"About as many as I've told you that it's not hacking if I already know the password; you really should be more imaginative," his lanky uninvited guest admonished casually, still sifting though the once-organised paperwork. Lestrade winced internally; he knew better than to think Sherlock would put any of it back where he found it. "Your mother's maidens name; honestly, even in a couple of weeks John's managed to get more creative than that with his laptop. 'Velociraptor' took me almost a whole hour to guess."

_And somehow, you would know my mother's maiden name. Every time I try to be clever and choose something random I forget the bloody thing and end up causing a security alert by locking myself out of the sodding system._

_I'll change it again as soon as he's gone; at least I've got good at _that_ over the years._

"How is John?" Lestrade asked grudgingly, as he took a seat on the wrong side of his own desk. "That shoulder looked a real mess; must be sore."

"Excruciating, judging from the fact that he finally opened a bottle of heavy duty pain relievers he was prescribed two months ago. He'd passed out on the sofa when I left."

"And you just walked out anyway?" Greg asked incredulously.

"Of course. Unconscious people are dreadfully dull; it's only the dead and the clever who interest me."

The DI shook his head. "You really are a heartless bastard, aren't you?"

"High functioning sociopath, Lestrade; at least use the technical term," Sherlock corrected. He paused over one sheet of paper among the snowdrift that ten minutes ago had been a relatively tidy work area. "Hmm… I notice Anderson's gone home sick; something debilitating, I hope? Or is he merely sulking over his inability to press charges on John?"

"He did get punched in the face, Sherlock, and your flatmate's not exactly a little old lady. Anderson's entitled to a couple of days off."

"A couple of decades, preferably," Sherlock muttered darkly. His eyes glittered with more malice than even Keith Anderson usually managed to engender as he steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. _Is he thinking about John's shoulder? Could it be… does he actually… care?_

Lestrade chose his next words very carefully. "All right; come on then," he said, as casually as he could manage. "What's the story with this Watson character? One of your grateful clients?"

"Hmm?" The consulting detective was distracted by something on the computer. "Oh, no. He just wanted some cheap accommodation; a mutual acquaintance at Bart's told him I was looking for a flatmate and introduced us."

"So, he had actually met you _before_ he agreed to move in with you?"

"Is that so surprising?" Lestrade just looked incredulous. "Oh; well, yes, he does have his little quirks, but then so do we all."

"_Him?_ Your quirks, Sherlock, could keep a whole team of psychologists busy for about ten years!"

"Only ten? You underestimate me; if I thought you were intelligent, I'd be offended."

"I give him three weeks," Lestrade predicted, slightly saddened by the remoteness of the probability of Sherlock actually making a friend. "And then you won't see him for dust, even with that limp."

"The limp has miraculously disappeared; do try to pay attention, Lestrade, you must have learned a few things from me in the last five years," he sniffed, as if Greg's lack of observational skills were a personal insult.

"What, his leg just got better?"

"Not better, as such; it was mostly psychosomatic. Just needed a few shots of adrenaline to start it working again. After Afghanistan I suppose London seems very dull; I know how bored I can get here."

Lestrade's brows furrowed as he tried to keep up with the conversation. "Wait; Afghanistan? What were you doing in Afghanistan?"

"Not _me_, Inspector," Sherlock drawled, closing his eyes as if in an exaggerated prayer for patience. "_John._"

"Well… What was he doing there?" Greg asked, nonplussed.

"Invading. What else does one do in Afghanistan, sunbathe?"

"He really is a soldier? Why'd you tell me he was a doctor?" _And should I really have helped him reset his own bones if he lied about knowing what he was doing?_

"He was an _army_ doctor," Sherlock explained in exasperation. "You don't need to worry about John at crime scenes, he's had more experience with violent deaths than most coroners. Shouldn't mind too much when one of my experiments explodes again, either."

"After serving in _Afghanistan?_" Greg could hardly believe Sherlock's ignorance. "I know you never watch the news, Sherlock, but even you must know it's a bloody mess out there…"

"So, he's already used to it," the consultant stated briskly. "Those idiots at the MOD may have slapped him with a frankly ludicrous PTSD diagnosis and pensioned him off after his injury, but John Watson is anything but fragile. As Anderson found out to his cost," he added almost proudly.

_Sherlock… proud? Of a man he's just met, even if he is a war hero? Although in his eyes I suppose just hitting Anderson wins John a big gold star…_

"But why did you bring him?" Lestrade tried. "It's not like you need the help…"

"My skull draws attention in public. And I think better when I talk aloud."

"You talk to me all the time; mostly to tell me how stupid I am."

"Yes; it was getting boring. Needed a new target."

"So what, you got a flatmate so you'd have someone new to insult? No soldier's gonna put up with that; you could drive Mother flaming Teresa to violence, let alone an ex squaddie with mental problems."

"The only problem he has is boredom, Lestrade. I can alleviate that boredom and therefore John will remain at hand, for a while at least."

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "You like him. My God."

"I'm allowed to like people, on occasion," Sherlock replied stiffly.

"'Course you are. You just haven't, since I've known you. Why's this one different?"

"He was looking for a reasonably priced flatshare." The computer beeped at them. "Ah, results at last." He hit a few keys, too fast for Greg to follow, and the printer whirred into life.

"Anything look promising?"

"Don't know yet; I'll read them over at home." Sherlock scooped up a thick wedge of paper, still warm from the printer, as he stood to his full irritating height. "Got to run, John should be coming round soon. I'll text you if I find anything." He rounded the desk and headed for the door.

"No, you won't," Lestrade corrected the obvious untruth with a sigh.

Sherlock paused at the threshold. "No, you're quite right, I won't," he conceded, and then he was gone, not even bothering to turn around. Greg's brow furrowed, remaining on the wrong side of the desk as he drank his coffee, deep in thought.

_Blimey. Sherlock Holmes has made friends with a normal person. Well, vaguely normal, anyway. It's like the world has turned itself upside down._

_And if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that any friend of Sherlock's is not a man to underestimate._

Lestrade pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through the contacts until he found Ricky Frost, an old friend of his in the military police who was not adverse to discussing military service records with his civilian counterpart outside of the painfully slow official channels, provided he got the same treatment when he needed a look at police files.

_Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one with contacts,_ he thought smugly, as he hit the call button. _And Watson definitely warrants a closer look…_

SHSHSHSHSH

In case anyone wonders after reading this, velociraptor is my nephew's favourite word. It makes him giggle.

All feedback gratefully received.


	5. The Hero

Once again, my deepest gratitude goes out to everyone reading and reviewing this story; I love reading your comments.

I'm not even going to bother apologising for the late update this time. Just be assured that the next one won't take nearly as long.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 5: The Hero

Keith Anderson was what might be described by anyone even slightly tactful or diplomatic as 'a bit grumpy'. Sherlock Holmes, being neither, would have described him as 'a talentless moron with the mental capacity of a pineapple who is expressing his frustration with his own inadequacies by inflicting even greater misery than usual on those unfortunate enough to be in his presence.'

Most of his… dissatisfaction… was the result of the large plaster strapped across his badly swollen nose, as well as the myriad of extremely colourful bruises blooming across his face. The swelling was bad enough that he could only breathe through his mouth, and the slightest touch to the tender flesh made him wince. What was worse was that John had apparently been correct about his breathing before his injury; the unmistakable symptoms of a cold were making themselves known, and every sneeze was agonising.

The overworked casualty staff had, after several hours in a waiting room, x-rayed Keith's face, told him there was nothing broken, stuck the big plaster over it and sent him home with a prescription for paracetamol. Anderson was highly irritated that their assessment was identical to John's.

_I am _not_ going to let the Freak's little pet get away with this! Just following Sherlock bloody Holmes around is not a licence to go around punching people; especially not me!_

_Well, I'll show him; there's no way the DI will let that little bastard onto any more crime scenes once the whole Met's seen what Holmes' so called 'doctor' has done to me… Maybe I'll even manage to get the pair of them banned; not having to put up with the Freak any more is definitely worth a punch… and who knows, maybe it'll impress Sally enough that she'll take me back…_

With this idea firmly in mind, Anderson turned up at work the next day to show off his injuries to as many sympathetic fellow- officers as possible, very few of whom had any fondness for Sherlock Holmes.

After giving out a rather... conveniently worded... explanation of his injuries to the top five gossips in Scotland Yard, as well as anyone else who happened to ask, Anderson was feeling very confident of the success of his plan. When he arrived in his lab to find his subordinates had just found a match on the corpse's fingerprints, thus giving him a perfect excuse to run upstairs to Lestrade's office, his mood improved immeasurably.

"Keith," Donovan greeted him, a touch stiffly, but with definite sympathy in her expression. "I thought you were taking a few days off…"

"I'm not going to let Sherlock bloody Holmes and his shadow steal my whole case like they stole my crime scene, Sally," he replied loftily, wishing he didn't sound quite so nasal.

"Well, you're more dedicated than I am, then," she replied dryly. "I'll take any chance I can get to avoid the Freak."

"Is Lestrade in his office?"

"Yeah; I think he must've pulled something playing doctor in the alley yesterday, though. Can't stop rubbing his shoulder."

"Good. If he's injured as well, maybe he'll listen when I tell him to ban the pair of them."

"We've been trying to talk the DI into that for years; what makes you think it'll work this time?"

"Well, we can't take any official action, but even he can't deny that having a man as unstable as Watson around evidence is clearly a bad idea. I mean, look at what he did to me! It's obvious that he'll lose it again, and if he does this to a witness, a suspect, a random member of the public…"

"And if Lestrade bans Watson, Sherlock will throw a tantrum… and we all know how the Freak gets when he doesn't get his own way," she replied with a grin. "They'll have a huge row, fall out… and we'll never have to deal with that psychopath or his sidekick again. That's _brilliant_."

Keith smiled as best he could, basking in her admiring tone. "With any luck, we can get rid of the pair of them and go back to doing some real police work, Sally. In fact," he added, as smoothly as he was able, "I think we should celebrate… what d'you say to a 'got rid of the Freak' party in the King's Head; say, around sevenish…"

Sally's response was cut off by Lestrade opening his office door.

"You back already, Anderson?" He asked, surprised. "How's the nose?"

"Extremely painful, thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the forensics officer replied, trying to sound as long suffering as possible.

"Looks it," the DI replied, sounding almost admiring. "For a shortish bloke, Watson's got a hell of a right hook."

"Speaking of Watson…" Anderson drawled, seizing his opportunity. "I know you think we need Holmes on the more complex cases, but we really can't let them get away with this. You need to kick the Freak out every now and then; prove that you have the power to decide who gets access to your crime scenes…"

Lestrade snorted. "Tried that. It worked for exactly two weeks until we got stuck and had to go crawling back to him; the smug bastard was unbearable for _months._ Sherlock's an asset, Anderson; I don't like him much either most of the time, but I put up with him for the sake of the case."

"What about that flatmate of his, then?" Keith tried, conscious of Sally listening to every word. "You can't say he's needed; Watson only turned up because he had nothing better to do than follow the Freak around. Doesn't that tell you something? He's clearly a sandwich short of a picnic anyway after what he did…"

"Be fair, Anderson," Lestrade interrupted Keith's carefully pre-planned speech. "Watson was just talking. You were the one who touched him first and you dislocated his bloody shoulder."

"He told me to stay out of that psycho Holmes's way!" The infuriated Forensics officer protested, struggling not to sound like a whiny teenager. "On my own crime scene, like I was the one intruding! I barely laid a had on him…"

"Which is still, technically, assault; Watson's got a stronger case than you if he decides to press charges. And the fact that he's a war hero doing his civic duty by assisting the police definitely won't hurt with the jury."

"Oh, please; don't tell me the Freak's been feeding you some sob story about his poor injured pet. I bet that shoulder wasn't even really hurt; it certainly didn't stop him punching me to the ground…"

"Well, you didn't exactly get a good look at him from where you were lying in a pool of rat piss, did you?" Lestrade snapped, rubbing his shoulder again as he winced at the memory. "I did; and take it from me, it was a lot worse than your bloody nose. I've done my homework on Doctor Watson; and he's a man who deserves a bit of respect."

"Respect?" Anderson scoffed. "He's a washed up doctor with terrible taste in jumpers and even worse taste in friends who gets his kicks out of shadowing a psychopath and punching anyone he takes exception to. The man belongs in the nuthouse; in fact, that's probably where Holmes picked him up. Take a free loony home with every visit, like Battersea Dogs Home; very good for fetching your slippers and hitting people…"

"All right, Anderson, that is _enough!_" Lestrade shouted.

Anderson's eyes widened. It was vanishingly rare for the usually calm and collected Inspector to lose his temper; usually only Sherlock Holmes himself could cause such a spectacular reaction. The DI stepped forwards until he was practically nose to swollen nose with Keith, although it had no effect on the volume of his voice.

"John Watson is 'a washed up doctor' because he took a Taliban bullet saving other soldier's lives on his third tour of Afghanistan. His injuries were so bad they got him a medical discharge from the army and somehow, I doubt they hand out George Crosses to nutters!"

_A George Cross? Watson? He's the most average, forgettable bloke I've ever seen; surely he can't have done anything worth a bravery medal that prestigious…_

Lestrade's finger jabbed painfully into the younger man's chest as he continued. "You assaulted him yesterday, _not_ the other way round, when you grabbed and dislocated that same shoulder because you didn't like what he was saying; and you're whining because he gave you a bloody nose in self-defence!"

"So next time you decide to judge a man you've just met by association, do your sodding research first and find out who the hell you're dealing with. Watson's a bloody brave man; and if I ever, _ever_ hear you taking the piss out of him for being Sherlock's friend again I swear to God I'll have you transferred out to the sticks to analyse cowpats for the rest of your life in five minutes flat! Is that clear?" Lestrade's face was very red after his outburst, contrasting sharply with Anderson's white plaster and even paler cheeks; the whole office was staring transfixed at the pair of them.

"Crystal, sir," Anderson managed, stunned.

"Good." Lestrade took a step back, mollified. "Now, did you have an actual reason to be up here, or are you just busy spreading malicious rumours?"

"Fingerprints," Anderson stumbled, still in shock. "On the victim from the alley. They're back."

"Oh; at least your team seem to have been getting on with their jobs instead of moaning, then, the DI sniped. "Let's hear it, and then you can repeat it all when Sherlock and John get here; in between apologies for causing damage to his war wound."

Anderson opened the file in his hands and handed the results to his superior, glancing down at Sally. From the mingled shock and faint horror on her face, he somehow doubted his efforts were going to win him any browning points.

SHSHSHSHSH

Anderson is actually pretty hard to write; he got so little screen time I have a hard time getting his voice right. Let me know if you thought it worked.

This story has been put on the back burner lately, a victim of my new fic 'The Seldom Seen Kid', which unfortunately hasn't been very popular with readers, although I personally think it's better than this one. I've just updated that story too, by the way (Shameless plug!).

Rest assured, I am still working on this one and the next chapter should be ready in a week or so. And it will actually contain some plot; how about that?


	6. The Colleague

Thank you so much to everyone reading and reviewing this; I can't tell you how much I love reading your comments.

This would have been up earlier if my laptop hadn't picked up a virus and made a spirited attempt to eat itself. Frightened the life out of me; if I'd lost all my writing I would've cried for at least a week. By the time I'd finished fixing it all I wanted to do was put the thing in a dark corner and not touch it for a week or two; but I bravely backed up all my files and let it connect back to the internet to post this.

Hope you like it, because the computer it's saved on very nearly ended up in Silicon Heaven with all the calculators. (Yes, that was a Red Dwarf reference. I'm geeky and proud.)

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 6: The Colleague

It was turning into a very odd day for Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

_First, Lestrade was acting… distracted; guilty, even; and every time I looked at him he was rubbing his bloody shoulder. Then Keith turns up looking like he's had a run in with Amir Khan and a frankly genius plan to get rid of the Freak. If it had worked, I can't promise I wouldn'tve said yes when he tried to ask me out; I felt sorry for him, all plastered up like that, and I do like Keith, despite him being a two-timing git._

_And then the DI went and gave him a right bollocking for calling Watson a nutter. Well, Keith can hardly be blamed for that, can he? My first thought when I look at a bland little man in a lumpy pullover is definitely not 'decorated war hero! Salute!' Besides, he had a point; after all, what sane man would ever willingly hang around Sherlock Holmes? Afghanistan must have really turned the poor sod into a mental case if he came back so messed up he could befriend the Freak._

_It wasn't really fair to Watson to judge him on his looks, I suppose. If the way Lestrade was shouting is any indication, whatever he found out was pretty damn impressive._

_Needless to say that with half the office giving Keith suspicious looks, the date at the King's Head was off._

By the time Sherlock and John turned up at New Scotland Yard, the whole building had heard about the incident in the alley the previous day. No one gossips like an off-duty copper; and the news that Sherlock Holmes had somehow acquired a friend who had punched a police officer for laying a hand on his shoulder (according to Anderson's version of events) had spread like wildfire. As all stories do, it had grown and evolved with every re-telling until Anderson came out as the victim of a vicious, unprovoked assault which left him with serious injuries, but had bravely turned up to work the next day regardless. Sally had actually had an offer of medicinal home-made chicken soup from one maternal policewoman she'd run into in the Ladies 'to help him recover, dear.'

_And I thought our little fling was mostly secret. Bloody Sherlock and his big _bloody_ mouth…_

The new rumours of Lestrade's dressing down were barely beginning to filter through, but the original story was so much juicer they were barely getting any attention. Besides, there's no story so easy to believe as one you want to be true; and Sherlock Holmes had made plenty of enemies at the Yard over the years.

Thus, it was not surprising that when the Consulting Detective's lanky, unmistakable figure breezed into the building, every accusing eye, including Sally's, immediately fixated on the shorter, stockier man trailing behind him. And stared.

John Watson's left jacket sleeve was empty; the arm was strapped firmly to his chest with a complex, obviously hospital-issued sling. His lined face showed obvious discomfort, and he leaned heavily on an aluminium walking stick in his good right hand as he limped gamely after his flatmate, who had shortened his usual lengthy stride to help John keep up.

_My God… I've seen car accident victims who looked better than that. I 'spose Keith must've really done him some damage…_

That seemed to be the general opinion of the room; at least, Sally heard someone behind her mutter aloud, "The poor sod… if Anderson had done that to me, I'd have bloody punched him too…"

"What do you have for me, Lestrade?" Holmes' unmistakable imperious baritone cut through the tense atmosphere.

"Sherlock, John." Lestrade said, his concern obvious as he pulled out the nearest chair. "Bloody hell, mate, you look like you've been run over. Here, take a seat; are you sure you shouldn'tve stayed at home?"

"Oh, no; I'm… I'm fine, really," John replied, looking a bit embarrassed by all the attention even as he took the offered seat with a wince. "Just overstrained my bad leg a bit yesterday; and the shoulder needs to be immobilised for a few days until the swelling goes down."

"Yes; it's very lucky that you still had your sling from the original injury or you might have been so unfortunate as to run into Anderson in Casualty," Sherlock added caustically. "I see someone's been spreading rumours, judging from all the looks we were getting downstairs."

"People asked about my nose; I told them what happened," Anderson sniped back defensively. "Normal people ask after each other's health; it's called being human, not that _you'd_ know anything about that…"

"Anderson," Lestrade growled a warning. "I think you have something to say to Doctor Watson." Anderson visibly squirmed, but he was interrupted before he could speak.

"You're being unusually intolerant of your subordinate's incompetence, Lestrade… ah." Sherlock's eyes widened as he worked it out. "Of course, you've been _digging_. Unusually clever of you; find anything good?"

Lestrade looked sheepish, but it was nothing compared to Watson's expression.

"Oh, God," he groaned, passing his good hand over his face. "Don't tell me you've been researching me on the Internet? For the record, I have absolutely no recollection of the events depicted in those pictures from Harry's wedding reception; half the room had spiked my drink by then…"

"Um, not on the Internet," Lestrade managed. "I have a friend, in the military police…"

"Oh… _oh_." His usually expressive features became unnaturally blank in an instant. "You know about Afghanistan, then."

"The bits that ended up on the paperwork, yes. Sorry," he added, abashed.

_Well, that explains that long phone call Lestrade made yesterday, when he locked himself in his office. I wonder what exactly he found out…_

John answered with a wry half smile that looked rather strained. "Well, it could've been worse. Those pictures…" he mock shuddered. "Never get pissed at a lesbian wedding; trust me, it's not worth the humiliation."

Lestrade's eyebrows jumped towards his hair. "That have anything to do with your nickname, 'Three Continents?'"

"No, actually, that was… Well, I was a lot younger then… and there were eight blokes called John or Jack or James in my company alone; it'd get confusing if we didn't have nicknames..."

"Drunken antics and embarrassing nicknames aside," Sherlock interjected, with a smirk. "I believe Anderson had something to say."

"Oh… um, yes." Keith quite obviously had to switch his mind from thinking about lesbian weddings and the kind of pictures John might be talking about back to his enforced apology. _Typical bloody Keith; always thinking with something other than his brain._

"I, er, just wanted to, um apologiseforyourshoulder." The last words were barely more than a mumble, as his cheeks flared pink under the bandage.

"Ok; apology accepted," John responded easily.

"_John!_" Sherlock protested indignantly. "Why should you forgive him? He could have set your recovery back months…"

"Because, Sherlock, me having a bad shoulder is not Anderson's fault. It's not like he meant to do any damage; he couldn'tve known about my injury…"

"I knew the minute I met you!"

"Yes, but you are a genius, you pillock," Watson replied, with the kind of fond exasperation usually reserved for housewives whose husbands spend too much time in their sheds. "Normal people can't tell a recently discharged soldier from their haircut and the way they stand. And even you had to guess where I was shot."

"I was right, though, wasn't I?"

"Of course you were; that's not the point. Anderson, no hard feelings, all right? And I'm sorry about the nose, too; training got the better of me." He offered his good hand to the forensics officer with a wry grin.

Anderson, aware of the many eyes upon them, made an attempt at a smile that came out as more of a grimace and shook the proffered hand. "No hard feelings," he managed.

_Lestrade had bloody well better appreciate the gesture, because that looked more painful than his nose._

"Urgh; make sure you wash that hand before we get home," Sherlock said disdainfully. "You never know; idiocy could very well be contagious." Anderson couldn't help but bristle indignantly.

"All right; yesterday behind us," Lestrade cut in, sensing another argument about to break out. "We've got a fingerprint ID on the body from the alley. Name's David Agini; and you were right, he was a lorry driver from Dalston. Got a record for domestic violence; the bastard beat his wife to a pulp more than once but she always refused to press charges."

"And where did he get that suntan?" Sherlock asked intently.

"Dunno, yet; we've requested his travel history from Customs but there's been nothing back. Worked for Ryder's Transport, a long haul firm that operate all over Europe; we've got an appointment to talk to the manager this afternoon."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the inefficiency of police procedure. "Anything from the autopsy yet?"

"Hot off the slab," Lestrade replied wryly. "John was right, too; initial findings are that he died of a heart attack. And he did have lung cancer; too advanced for surgery to do him much good, apparently." Sherlock shot his flatmate an approving glance. "The interesting thing is that they also found a drug in his blood that had no business being there. Something called… uh, atropine…"

"Atropine? What kind of concentration?" John asked, interested.

"Err… I'll have to look it up… Hang on, I'll print the email…"

"Atropine is used to treat excessively high heart rates, isn't it?" Sherlock asked the doctor.

_Did Sherlock Holmes just ask Watson a question? He actually admitted to not knowing everything there is to know about a murder? Bloody hell; he called him his colleague, but I thought he was just using it as a euphemism for 'lapdog'._

"Well, at very low concentrations, yes," John replied. "But in emergencies where a patient's pulse has dropped dangerously, a high dose of atropine causes it to speed up; if the patient is overdosed, there can be some nasty side effects."

"Anticholinergic toxidrome," Sherlock said, with a satisfied smirk.

"Anti- what?" Sally asked.

"Oh; _honestly_, Donovan," the consulting detective sneered. "How you expect to be able to investigate murders when you don't even recognise the obvious signs of poisoning…"

"It's a set of symptoms associated with overdose on a particular group of drugs," John interrupted his tirade to explain patiently, much to Sherlock's obvious disgust. "The patient's skin becomes hot and dry because they lose the ability to sweat, they suffer temporary blindness because their pupils dillate uncontrollably, dizziness, dilation of blood vessels so they look flushed, confusion, hallucinations, irregular heartbeat…"

"Enough to kill a terminal lung cancer sufferer who already has a weak heart?" Sally asked, interested despite herself.

"If the dose was high enough, yeah."

"Would fifteen milligrams do it?" Lestrade asked, pulling a sheet of paper off the printer.

"Definitely," the doctor agreed with a firm nod. "Ten milligrams can be enough to kill even a healthy individual."

Donovan scribbled down a few notes. "Is atropine hard to get hold of?"

"Well… it's sometimes used recreationally for the hallucinogenic properties… I expect if you had the right contacts you could get hold of some on the black market. Or you could break into the back of an ambulance; they always have some on hand for emergencies."

"Right then; I think your next avenue of investigation is quite clear, Inspector," Sherlock announced. "Check the database for reports of atropine thefts or dealers in the last six months or so, talk to the haulage company, find out where Mr Agini has been recently and have his lorry brought in for examination. Anderson can probably manage to process a simple delivery vehicle adequately, even considering his _injury_," he sneered.

"And what exactly am I looking for?" Anderson snapped back, noticably recovering from his earlier humiliation. "Or are you just guessing that his death was involved with his work?"

"Of course it was! Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock took in the blank expressions on their faces and actually growled in frustration.

"Just think, the lot of you! Why would anyone go to such trouble as sourcing a relatively obscure drug to murder a dying man? Obviously, it's because he knew something, and he had nothing left to lose by telling anyone! And what might a long haul lorry driver know that he could use to threaten someone with?"

"You think there's something dodgy going on at the company?" John ventured. "Like, I dunno, smuggling, or something?"

"Yes!" Sherlock declared, throwing up his hands ecstatically. "Give the Doctor a prize; he's already better at your jobs than the lot of you. Lestrade, text me the ex-wife's address; we should just have time to find out what she knows before we investigate Ryder's Transport. Come on, John." And then the Consulting Detective was gone in a dramatic sweep of coat, followed rather more slowly by the limping doctor.

"Hang on, Sherlock, wait!" Lestrade called after them, reaching into his office to grab his coat before he hurried to follow. "Donovan, you'll have to get me that address; I've got to catch them up before Sherlock traumatises the widow again…"

"Yes, sir," she replied, remembering the last time with a grimace.

_War hero or not, Watson is not going to last long trailing behind that psychopath,_ Sally thought with a twinge of pity. _The poor bastard._

SHSHSHSHSH

Might be a while before I manage to update this one again; but I am still working on it, I promise. Let me know what you thought.


	7. Honourable

A/N: Yes, this story is back! I'm hoping to have it finished before the new season starts.

Once again, thank you so much to everyone reading and reviewing. Here's a nice long chapter to reward your patience...

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 7: Honour

Lestrade caught up with the odd pair just as John was settling himself into the back of the cab, his pained grimace at the simple action leaving no doubt that the man should be putting his feet up instead of following his mad flatmate around the city. The DI managed to slide in behind them before Sherlock could shut the door in his face.

"Don't you have better things to do with your time than follow us, Detective Inspector?" The consultant demanded sulkily.

"Not when you're going to tell a murder victim's wife she's a widow, I don't," Lestrade replied grimly. "The Met were _this_ close to getting sued for causing unnecessary emotional anguish last time; my whole team were forced into two bloody days of sensitivity training, not to mention all the lawyers we had to deal with…"

"And the reason you did _not_ get sued was because I successfully proved that Mrs Isaacs arranged to have her husband killed by her half-brother in order to collect on his life insurance and run off to Barbados with her Yoga instructor. A fair exchange, don't you think?"

"Have you ever _sat_ through a sensitivity training lecture?" Lestrade asked with a shudder.

"I have," John replied grimly, mirroring his expression. "Back in medical school; we did a whole course in breaking bad news. I can only think of one thing worse."

"What, getting shot at? I think I'd take my chances."

"No; sitting through a sensitivity workshop _with Sherlock_."

Lestrade took a few seconds to imagine it… and blanched. "Oh, God; I think that's nightmare material," he said, eyes glazed with horror.

"Oh, please. Spending a few hours in a deadly dull lecture in techniques of telling people their relatives have died can hardly be that bad."

"Not just a lecture, Sherlock," John corrected. "There's brainstorming…"

"Role play."

"Sitting in a circle to share personal experiences."

"Being made to look like a total prat to everyone else in the room because you're forced to talk about _feelings_. And you have to be _sober_."

Sherlock looked on in rare genuine confusion as the two heterosexual middle aged Englishmen shuddered in unison. Lestrade noticed to the second the moment he dismissed it as unimportant and switched his brain back into 'case' mode, although one greyish eye remained firmly on the Doctor, as if Sherlock still hadn't quite worked out what to make of him.

_I think that's a new record; he's got almost everyone cracked within five minutes of meeting them. Usually much less._

Lestrade's thoughts were interrupted when his phone beeped; he produced it from his pocket. "Donovan's sent me the wife's address; Flat 5F, 26-32 George Street, E8."

"Good; it shouldn't take us too long to get there at this time of day. After we've dropped John off, of course."

"What?" The injured man asked, brow furrowing in confusion. "Where am I going?"

"Home. 221B Baker Street, please," Sherlock called out to the cabbie. "And don't look at me like that, Doctor," he added petulantly. "None of the flats on George Street have lifts and thanks to Anderson's _monumental_ stupidity, you're in no condition to climb five flights of stairs."

_Sherlock looks like a little boy who's been told he can't invite a friend along to the Zoo; he genuinely wants John to come along. Bloody hell; it's been five years and I'm still only allowed to be on my own bloody crime scenes with him if I _think_ quietly; he's barely known John more than a couple of weeks._

"How the hell can you possibly know there's no lifts?" John asked challengingly.

"Because I know every street in London; and George Street is all Victorian terraced houses knocked through into flats. Installing lifts in buildings that old costs a fortune and the planning permission is almost impossible to get, so developers only bother if they're doing _luxury_ flats, which no lorry driver could possibly afford."

John's expressive features crinkled into a smile. "Every street? Let me guess; plotting routes around the CCTV cameras to annoy Mycroft?"

Sherlock grinned, his spectacularly rare, brilliant, genuine grin, which for an instant almost made his austere features boyish. "He gave me a London A-Z for Christmas when I was five. I promptly memorised it, of course; worst mistake he ever made in his quest to watch my every movement."

"Not so bad for chasing serial killer taxi drivers," was John's rueful reply.

"True. He does, very occasionally, have his uses."

"I think that's the nicest thing I've ever heard you say about your brother."

"And it's the nicest thing I'm ever likely to say about the overbearing, pompous fat…"

"Hang on; Mycroft is your _brother?_" Lestrade interupted incredulously. "As in the scary bloke in the smart suit who turns up every now and then to interrogate me about you?"

Sherlock looked mildly surprised. "Of course he's my brother. Why, who did you think he was?"

"I dunno… some kind of professor from the secret genius growing camp you escaped from who wanted to make sure you weren't causing trouble?"

John and Sherlock exchanged yet another conspiratal grin. "Close enough," the Consulting detective replied.

"You did better than me," John added. "I went for 'criminal mastermind'. Mycroft's not all that good at making first impressions, what with the kidnapping and everything…"

"Kidnapping? Sherlock's brother _kidnapped_ you?" _Bloody hell; they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but _two_ of them?_

It was the younger Holmes who answered. "The day after I met him, Mycroft offered John money to spy on me; I still say you should've taken it," he grumbled. "It's not as if he doesn't have enough to spare."

"I had other things on my mind at the time. And at least he saved me a cab fare."

"Another of his little uses." Sherlock's smile dissolved as the cab bounced over a speed bump; John's expression had become very fixed as the suspension rocked the trio far more than was advisable for his injuries.

"Besides," he continued, with a disgruntled little sniff. "Your stoic face may be good enough to fool Scotland Yard's finest, John, but it doesn't work on me. You're of no use to me in that level of pain."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade protested, appalled yet again by his consultant's insensitivity.

"It's not like I'm not used to it; I've been in pain since the day I got shot," the doctor answered matter of factly. "Full marks for noticing, though."

"Of course I noticed. If your limp were purely the result of muscle strain from yesterday your step would have shortened to reduce the stretch in your leg; instead it's sharper and more precise than usual and you're keeping perfect four-four time. That tells me your military training is more at the forefront of your mind than usual and when combined with the fact that you remained standing for a good five minutes to wash up one-handed this morning with no ill effects, your psychosomatic limp must be making a reappearance. Triggered by the pain in your shoulder and the sling, most likely."

"Well, it's not as if you were going to do it; that kitchen looks like an explosion in a drunken glassblower's workshop on a good day. And I've seen all the fossilised toast crusts on your bedroom floor…"

"That was for an experiment."

"Oh, yes? Testing how long it takes for us to get mice, are you?"

"We won't have them for _long_; those crusts are laced with strychnine."

"_Strychnine?_" Lestrade blurted, unable to control his reaction.

"Among other things. I'm testing how the presence of various poisons affects decomposition and mould development in bread products."

"So that's what happened to the loaf," John commented lightly, as if leaving poisoned toast crusts scattered across your bedroom floor were perfectly acceptable, normal behaviour. "And here I was hoping you'd actually eaten something for a change."

"Dull. And I ate last week."

"Yes, I remember. It was my dinner."

"Don't you get picky with me, Doctor; you're the one who told me to eat or, and I quote, 'I'll bloody well tie you down and stick a feeding tube down your throat!'"

"And don't think I won't, if you refuse to listen to reason, you idiot," John retorted. For some reason completely incomprehensible to Lestrade, Sherlock and John took one look at each other and... laughed. He stared on in wonder, barely managing to stop his jaw from dropping. _I didn't even know Sherlock had a sense of humour that didn't involve corpses and insulting people; and suddenly he's giggling like a schoolgirl over a private gag…_

The DI's musings were interrupted as the cab pulled up on Baker Street.

"Ah, here we are," Sherlock said brightly. "Take a pain pill and get some rest, John; I'll be wanting you later, and I need you as fit as possible."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. _Does Sherlock not realise how that sounded, or is he still joking?_

John merely sighed; it was something he seemed to do frequently around Sherlock. "And you wonder why Angelo brings us candles," he muttered under his breath, as he levered himself painfully out of the cab.

"Will you be ok on the stairs?" Lestrade asked in concern.

"I'll manage. Down is harder than up. And Sherlock, just try to be tactful, will you?"

"Tact is boring."

"And I'm going to be alone with your pig brain experiment and my phone. Text me if he does anything unforgivable, Lestrade?" John saw Greg's smile at the thought of having leverage over Sherlock's bluntness and nodded approvingly. "Good. Have fun," he added to his flatmate, before closing the door and limping slowly towards home.

Greg took one look at the indignant expression on Sherlock's face and couldn't help but laugh himself as the cab pulled away from the kerb.

"Blimey; he's lived with you two weeks and he's already got you under his thumb, hasn't he?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped back. "He wasn't serious; John knows my experiments are important…"

"You sure about that?"

"Positive," Sherlock sniffed, although something in the tilt of his head suggested he wasn't quite as sure as he made out. "Dalston, driver; 26 George Street."

"Right you are, mate," the cabbie called back, sounding eager to get rid of them. _Can't say I blame him, after overhearing all that._

"Well, good luck to him," Lestrade remarked with a hint of admiration in his voice. "He's going to have his hands full."

"Hand, until that blasted sling comes off," Sherlock replied darkly. "I hope you plan to inflict some more appropriate punishment on Anderson than making him say 'sorry'; or I shall have to come up with something… creative…"

"No poisons, Sherlock." The DI tried to infuse all the authority he could into the three words; he hoped the result didn't sound as desperate to his consultant's ears as they did to his own.

"No? Shame; it could be very helpful to my investigation to observe a case of anticholinergic toxidrome first hand…"

"Slip Anderson anything more powerful than a laxative, Sherlock, and you'll be out of the Yard so fast your feet'll never touch the ground."

"Laxative? Dull; predictable, boring. Strychnine, on the other hand…"

"Why don't you see if John has any ideas?" Lestrade suggested hurriedly. _At least he won't let Sherlock do anything dangerous…_

The consultant scowled. "Can't. He's much too honourable for his own good; he'd never agree to any kind of revenge. In fact, he'd probably warn Anderson what we were planning himself."

"He's a good bloke, Doctor Watson. Bloody needs to be, to live with you. Just try not to scare him off, willya? I think he's gonna be a good influence."

"Scare him off? It takes a great deal to frighten John Watson, Lestrade; I'd think even you would have found that out in your investigations."

"Bit of an understatement, that, from what I hear," Lestrade replied, genuine respect colouring his words.

"You know all the gory details, then, about John's career in Afghanistan," Sherlock stated, with excessive casualness.

"Can't blame a copper for being curious," Lestrade replied cautiously. _Is he actually… being protective? Am I about to get told off for invading someone's privacy by _Sherlock Holmes_, of all people? Because I think that qualifies him for the International Hypocrite Of The Year Award…_

The DI continued cautiously. "And anyone you like enough to live with definitely warrants a bit of research. Wouldn't think he was a hero to look at him, would you?"

"_You_ wouldn't, no," Sherlock shot back scathingly, as Greg had known he would. "It's all there, Lestrade; you just have to _observe_. I knew he was military within five seconds of laying eyes on the man, a doctor within ten and recently invalided home on medical grounds in twelve."

"You do that to everyone; deduce their life story in one glance and then wonder why they tell you to get lost afterwards. Us normal people have to _talk_ to one another to find that kind of stuff out."

"Or phone old friends in the military police, it seems… Oh." Sherlock interrupted himself as another thought occurred to him. "So that's what John was trying to do at the restaurant, with the real lives speech. How conventional of him." Lestrade, used to Sherlock's abrupt subject changes, didn't blink an eye when he continued with his original point. "And he didn't tell me to get lost, either; even when I told him how I knew about his estranged sibling's drinking habits."

"He didn't? What did he say, then?"

Sherlock looked uncomfortable; even in the dull, constantly shifting light of the cab, Greg could have sworn there was a light tinge of pink creeping into the alabaster cheeks.

"He said it was… amazing. And extraordinary." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Quite extraordinary, in fact."

_Goes a long way to explaining why he likes the man so much. Sherlock always was a sucker for flattery, not that his head needs to get any bigger than it already is._

"So you never actually asked him, about his time in the army?"

"Why would I? I can deduce as much as I need to know; if I require more detailed information at any point in the future I'll ask then."

_Ah… back on familiar ground. Bloody Sherlock and his non-essential data… well, I know a sure-fire way to _make_ it essential…_

"You don't actually know what I know, about what John got up to in Afghanistan, then, do you?" Lestrade asked, allowing himself to look a touch smug about having more information than the Great Sherlock Holmes for once.

The world's only Consulting Detective visibly bristled. "I know enough; and I have no intention of making him as uncomfortable as you did by researching his history. Mycroft sent me his file, of course, but I'd never give him the satisfaction of actually reading it."

"All right, then; how d'you think he got that scar?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"You tell me," Greg invited, a hint of challenge in his voice that he knew Sherlock would be utterly unable to resist. He was right.

"The scar we saw yesterday was clearly an exit wound caused by a large calibre round, so the bullet entered John's back and passed straight through his body, causing considerable trauma on its way. At a guess; shattered scapula, broken clavicle, significant nerve, ligament and muscle damage; did you know there are eighteen different muscles attached to a human shoulderblade? I'm surprised he can still use his left arm as well as he can- or could before Anderson got to it," Sherlock added darkly.

"Probable that the bullet clipped the subclavian artery, too, so the blood loss would have been massive; he's lucky not to have died on the spot from hypovolemic shock. Now, as for the circumstances of the injury… The angle of the scarring suggests a downward trajectory; John's not a tall man but for it to be so pronounced in a wound sustained from a shoulder mounted weapon he must have been sitting or crouching at the time he was shot…"

"How d'you know that?" Lestrade interrupted. "Surely you can't tell what kind of gun it was just from a scar…"

"Because, Detective Inspector, I know John. If he heard gunfire he'd run towards it, not away; the only way he could possibly have been shot from behind is by surprise and from a significant distance. That means the shooter's weapon must have been a high-powered rifle; AK47, probably, in that part of the world. Caught by surprise, crouching for cover or to attend to a patient; sniper attack. Simple."

_And of course, when the great Sherlock Holmes looks at his new friend's badly damaged and dislocated shoulder all he's interested in is working out what the pattern of the scarring can tell him. At least he didn't reel all that off in front of John._

"You've been holding all that in ever since you got your first glimpse of it yesterday, haven't you?"

"I'm _right_, aren't I?" In the flat, grey eyes, there was that taint of desperation, the burning need to be right, to be certain, that often followed one of his long spouting deductions. Mentally, Lestrade reviewed what he'd said and compared it to his very enlightening chat with his mate in the military police the previous day…

"Ricky! Greg Lestrade."

"Greg; great to hear from you," the man replied, his Mancunian accent as familiar as ever. "Feels like we only talk when one of us needs a favour."

"Yeah, well; funny you should say that…"

"Let me guess; you need me to pull up a file for you. Hang on, just let me log into the database; you're in luck, I'm in my office today… What is it this time; suspect or victim?"

"Neither, at the moment. Just a bloke I came across in an investigation; call it… professional curiosity."

"Ok. D'you know the regiment?"

"No; but I know he's a Captain, sent home wounded from Afghanistan fairly recently. An army doctor by the name of John Watson?"

"Captain Watson? You can't possibly suspect old Three Continents Watson of anything, Greg!"

"Three Continents?"

"Army nickname; ask him over a few pints sometime. Trust me, there's worse out there; I once served with a bloke absolutely everyone, including his superior officers, knew as Todger. Come to think of it, I've no idea what his actual name was."

"So you know Watson, then?"

"Well, only by reputation. I mean, blimey; a man can't be awarded a GC and not be talked about."

"A _George Cross?_" Lestrade spluttered. "He's a hero?"

"About as heroic as it gets. Some reckoned he should've got the Victoria Cross, but since he wasn't _technically_ in the face of the enemy... at least, he didn't know he was... he got the George instead. And the reward he gets is to be flown home and put out to grass, poor bastard. There; I've accessed his service records. What d'you need to know?"

"Start at the beginning, Ricky."

"Well… let's skim over the basics… joined up at eighteen; army sponsored his medical training at the University of London. Served in Northern Ireland, Sierra Leone, Iraq and was almost at the end of his third tour of Afghanistan when he was discharged. Promoted fairly quickly up the ranks, must've been well liked, from these glowing reports… Ah, here we go; the paperwork submitted for his medal by a Corporal Murray."

"Some troops were being transferred from Camp Bastion to help out at a smaller base where there'd been a lot of fierce fighting. Watson and Murray were travelling in a convoy with supplies and reinforcements when one of the armoured vehicles hit an IED. One man was killed instantly by the explosion, two more severely injured and the troop carrier following was damaged by the debris and went off the road. Watson was in it; injured his right leg in the crash, which later turned out to be fractured."

"Didn't slow him down much at the time, though; him and a couple of orderlies were the only medics they had. Watson ignored his own injuries and started treating the wounded as best he could at the roadside."

"Apparently the enemy had laid a trap for them; three more men were killed and four injured by snipers while they waited over an hour for a helicopter to evacuate the wounded. Bloody budget cuts," he added darkly. "If they had enough choppers out there, most of the roadside bomb deaths could've been prevented."

"So Watson got his medal for saving the other bloke's lives even though he was injured himself, and, what, got caught by a stray bullet doing it?" Lestrade guessed. _If that's not a good excuse for a psychosomatic limp, I don't know what is._

"Nope; GCs are awarded for outstanding acts of courage or gallantry while not directly faced with the enemy, Greg; and Watson certainly showed plenty of both. One of the other men hit by a sniper that day was a Private Hayward; the force of the bullet in his arm knocked him out from behind his cover and into the open. He was a sitting duck; took a second one in the thigh while he tried to crawl back to shelter."

"Watson is well known as a crack shot with a handgun, even though medical officers aren't technically supposed to use them except in self-defence. He broke his own cover and opened fire on the snipers to distract them from the wounded man; got one confirmed kill, and the rest of the troops followed his lead. They thought they'd got them all; that's why the doctor took his chance to get to Hayward."

"Watson was knelt down to see to his wounds when it turned out they hadn't. Another sniper popped up and shot him in the shoulder from behind. The bullet went straight through him and hit his patient; right between the eyes." Ricky's voice had become soft and gruff, as it always did when he spoke about men dying in action. "Poor kid was barely twenty."

_Jesus Christ… John had to watch that happen; had to _feel_ it happen… covered in a dead boy's blood…_

"According to this, the other men were so pissed off about their doctor getting shot they had the last sniper dead in less than a minute. Watson still didn't know when to stay down, though. He managed to talk his orderlies through the care of the other wounded even flat on his back and bleeding to death; told Murray he was done for anyway so there was no point trying to save him. Barely let the man bandage his injury because he wanted the medical supplies saved for the other men. By the time he'd passed out from the bloodloss, the Doctor's instructions had saved at least two lives and one leg."

"Murray packed him onto the chopper when it arrived and by the time the poor bastard was conscious and lucid again, he was in hospital in Birmingham, already halfway out of the door."

"Bloody hell fire," Lestrade's response had been a hoarse whisper. The idea that the bland, forgettable, non-threatening, utterly ordinary man who'd been following Sherlock about for the last couple of weeks had done all that…

He suddenly remembered, all too vividly, the brief but intense conversation between the flatmates during the Jennifer Wilson case.

_"If you'd been murdered, in your last moments, what would you say?"_

_"Please, God, let me live?"_

_"Oh, use your imagination!"_

_"I don't have to."_

And Sherlock Holmes, of all people, had stilled utterly for a moment, accepted John's statement and moved on without acknowledging it.

_I think it's time he tried the getting to know people by talking to them approach,_ Greg decided, remembering John's shuttered, almost embarrassed expression when he realised someone knew exactly what he'd done in the service of his fellow soldiers. _Let him muddle through like the rest of us for once; if John wants it kept quiet, that's exactly what he'll get._

"No," Lestrade said aloud. "If you want details, you'll have to get them the normal way; ask him yourself."

SHSHSHSHSH

I like to think that Lestrade has his own tricks for manipulating Sherlock into doing what he wants; the drugs bust springs to mind. Even so, I seriously doubt he'd mind having a bit of help every now and then.

Hope you found my version of John's injury believable…


	8. The One

Once again, my deepest gratitude goes out to everyone reading and reviewing this little story. Particularly this time to Punnylove, whose very helpful review for chapter 6 stimulated my brain into writing this one. Hope you like.

If reading this doesn't tell you the name of my favourite film outside the original Star Wars Trilogy, then clearly you need to get out less and spend more time revelling in the magnificence of all things science fiction.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 8: The One

Keith Anderson had fled from all the accusing eyes in the busy office space at the first possible opportunity; approximately ten seconds after Lestrade's hurried departure. He mumbled something to Sally about collecting his kit for the visit to the haulage company and vanished down the rarely used back stairs.

Finally, he closed the door to his cramped, meticulously organised little office in the lab behind him with a relieved little sigh. Now safely ensconced in his own territory, Keith allowed himself to indulge in a truly monumental fit of sulking as the events of the day ran through his mind.

_The _looks_ I was getting up there… like it was all _my_ fault… I mean, yes, Watson looked bad, but I've worked here eight years; these people are _my_ friends, _my_ colleagues… And not one of them has even thought about being on my side in this whole mess since the Freak trotted his sick pet out in front of them like Scotland Yard was bloody Crufts._

_Lestrade had no right to shout at me like that in front of everyone, either. What does it matter that Watson was a good soldier? He's not one any more, and he needs to look around and notice that this is _London_, filled with streets and shops and cars and _normal_ people living _normal_ lives, not a bloody battlefield._

_Even Sally looked like she felt sorry for the man who nearly broke my nose right in front of her not twenty four hours ago; I'm definitely not going to get any luck with her for a while. Maybe after the Freak gets bored with Watson and murders him, she'll need a bit of… consoling…_

Keith didn't look up as his office door opened; he really wasn't in the mood to have someone else try to verbally eviscerate him.

"Don't you know how to knock?" He snapped. "I'm in the middle of a case; whatever you want, it can wait."

"Keith Anderson?" A deep, unfamiliar voice intoned, rhetorically.

The luckless forensics officer turned to see two tall, nondescript men in plain black suits in his doorway. Neither appeared overtly threatening, but the combined effect of their bland, forgettable faces looming over him without any kind of expression made him unaccountably nervous.

"Yes? Who are you?" He demanded, petulantly.

"Jones and Brown, Special Branch," one of them replied. "You need to come with us."

"What? Special Branch have your own Forensics department; why d'you want me?"

"Your presence is required," his companion intoned. Even his voice was perfectly level. "Come quietly, and there will be no need for handcuffs."

Keith blanched. "You're arresting me?" He spluttered, in shock.

"Not unless you force us to. Someone just wants a quiet little chat."

"Who?" _I can't believe anyone would threaten to arrest me in my own office; me, a fellow copper! Someone's got to be taking the piss, surely…_

"You'll see. Come along, Mr Anderson."

Looking from one blank face to the other, Keith opened his mouth… and then closed it again. Wind up or not, even he had enough sense to know he had no choice.

He tried hard to look dignified as he was escorted down to the high security cells, where only the most dangerous and sensitive prisoners were held in little grey rooms surrounded by eight inches of bomb-proof reinforced concrete. Jones and Brown, who he strongly suspected were using aliases, abandoned him in what was quite clearly an interrogation room. It, too, was uniformly grey and contained only a pair of steel chairs bolted to the floor with a small table between them. One wall was a huge two-way mirror and there were no less than four CCTV cameras trained on the centre of the room, one in each corner by the ceiling.

Keith had broken out into a cold sweat. _What the hell is going on? If this turns out to be another one of Bradstreet's pranks, I'm going to strangle him, right before I get him done for inappropriate conduct._

_And if it isn't… it can't be about yesterday; Special Branch don't get involved with petty little punch-ups. Unless this has something to do with the Freak? But then surely they'd want Lestrade, unless it's him they're investigating for letting Sherlock in too far…_

_It can't be to do with me, surely. I haven't done anything illegal, not since… well, they can't possibly know anything about _that_, can they? And even if they did, why would they care? Unless… oh, God; it can't be about Sally, can it? I mean it's against regs but we don't work together every day and it's not like I'm her direct superior or anything…_

Eventually, after Keith's imagination had had the chance to run wild for an eternally long and rather sweaty forty three minutes, the door opened abruptly to admit three men into the room. The first two were Jones and Brown, his… escorts? Arresting officers? From earlier, who took up guarding positions in the corners of the room, but it was clear that the stranger was the man in charge.

He was tall, fortyish, with dark, slightly reddish hair, wearing an expertly tailored three-piece suit and an air of authority that would have made the Chief Superintendent swallow hard. Oddly enough, although it was a perfectly fine day outside, he was also carrying an elegantly furled black umbrella in one hand.

There was a thick manila file tucked under his arm, which he laid casually on the table as he sat. The man was clearly in no hurry; he took care to settle himself comfortably and lean his umbrella against the table so it wouldn't fall.

"Who are you?" Keith demanded weakly, trying to keep his voice steady with only limited success. "What am I doing here?"

Rather than answer the question, or even meet his eyes, Umbrella Man opened the file in a leisurely manner and began to leaf through it, almost idly, as Keith craned his neck instinctively, attempting to read it upside down. His eyes widened and cheeks flushed as he caught a glimpse of a particularly lurid photograph, obviously a CCTV still.

_Oh, Jesus Christ… I'm stuffed…_

"As you can see, we've been keeping an eye on you for some time now, Mr Anderson," the man drawled at last, in a pleasant, public school tenor that made the hairs stand up on the back of Keith's neck.

"You see," he continued, "it seems you've been living two lives; in the first, you are Keith A. Anderson, devoted husband and respected forensic science officer for New Scotland Yard; you have a mortgage, you pay your taxes…"

One eyebrow quirked up in an oddly familiar gesture as a sharklike smirk crossed the man's features. "And you occasionally require Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan's assistance in scrubbing your floors while your wife is away."

"The second life is lived rather more shadily, in pubs, clubs and anywhere else you think you won't be recognised. There you go by the alias 'Neil' and are guilty of just about every offence against the state of matrimony there is a vow for." He turned a page to consult the file. "Plus… seventeen… counts of soliciting both men and women of -shall we say, _negotiable_ affection – and… twenty four… separate incidences of public indecency, which I have more than sufficient evidence to have you arrested for."

Anderson simply stared at the man, jaw slack and mouth dry as fear and humiliation churned unmercifully in his abdomen. _Oh, God… I'm ruined; this is more than enough to get me sacked, and probably a criminal record too… not to mention my wife… I wouldn't stand a chance in a divorce…_

_How can Special Branch possibly know all of this? How long have they known? Is this bloke the only one, or does everyone know? Is someone showing Sally that photo right now? Because if she finds out about any of this it won't be my _nose_ she tries to break…_

"One of these lives has a bright future, Mr Anderson, and one of them does not." The strange man leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table. The faint smile that never left his features was singularly unnerving. "Now, I'm going to be as forthcoming as I can be with you. You are here because we, most fortuitously, need your help." Sudden hope surged in Keith's chest. _If there's something they need from me, maybe they'll let me off with a warning… I'll do _anything_…_

"We know that you have recently been in contact- quite literally- with a certain individual. A man by the name of…" _Sherlock Holmes; it's got to be… this must be the bloke in charge of catching the Freak! I'm saved! And maybe I'll be able to help get rid of him after all…_

"…John Watson," The man interlaced his fingers loosely in front of him and examined Keith's reaction to the name with faint amusement. _Wait; what? You've got to be kidding; Watson's got Special Branch interested in him? Is the man secretly an international assassin or something? It would explain why the Freak likes him so much…_

"Whatever you think you know about this man is irrelevant," he interrupted Keith's confusion firmly. "Doctor Watson is considered by… many authorities… to be among the most valuable men alive. My… colleagues… believe that I am wasting my time with you, but I believe you wish to do the right thing." Slowly, deliberately, he closed the file and pushed it to one side.

"I am willing to wipe the slate clean; and give you- and your marriage- a fresh start. All I ask in return is your co-operation in the protection of a man to whom the British Government owes a considerable debt."

"Wha…" Anderson's dry throat cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What kind of debt?" _Because it must be something bloody massive to make the government this interested in Watson. They can't even be bothered to look after top secret documents on trains, let alone slightly mental ex-army doctors…_

"He… saved a life," the stranger said slowly, almost reverently. "A very important life; with significant influence on the future of Great Britain and beyond. I am not at liberty to divulge the full details of Watson's actions, nor the identity of the individual in question. Suffice to say… It is a name that would be far from unfamiliar to you."

"But… why me? What d'you think I can do protect Watson? I've only run into him a couple of times at crime scenes; and anyway, it's that psycho flatmate of his you want to be worried about, Sherlock Holmes. He's a murderer if ever I saw one…"

"Sherlock Holmes has been closely monitored for some years, Mr Anderson," the man replied, his lips tightening infinitesimally as the smile flickered. For the first time, the amusement fell from his eyes to be replaced with something brittle and steely. "I assure you, _if_ he had killed anyone, I _would_ know about it. Regardless, you are the only one who has caused damage to Doctor Watson since his return from Afghanistan."

Oh, no, not this again… "I put my hand on his shoulder!" Keith protested.

"You gripped his shoulder with enough force that the act of wrenching it out of your grasp succeeded in dislocating the Doctor's recently broken clavicle. I would describe that as harm, wouldn't you?" The razor edge that had crept into his voice melted in an instant into that friendly, insincere drawl once again.

"Now, Mr Anderson, let us not get carried away," Umbrella Man continued, drawing the saccharine false friendliness effortlessly over his features again like a coat of fresh paint. "The fact remains; Her Majesty's Government does not take kindly to any kind of damage to the inestimable John Watson. Therefore, if you don't want copies of the contents of this file ending up on inconvenient desks, including those of Mrs Linda Anderson, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, you will do exactly as I say."

Keith stared mutely into cold, steely grey-blue eyes and trembled at the promise of his own destruction he saw there. This man would swat him like a fly without a second thought; the only reason he was offering this opportunity was to achieve his own objectives with a minimum of effort.

"You lovely wife is a solicitor, is she not?" The man reminded him, with excessive, obviously false sweetness.

"Personal injury, mostly," Keith replied numbly.

"Indeed. And would I be correct in thinking that she has some very good friends in the field of divorce law? Yes, of course she does. You'd be lucky to afford Mrs Hudson's prices after you'd had all your assets stripped by a team of highly trained forensic accountants; and I know some _very_ good accountants." The last phrase was almost a purr.

With a wave of disbelief, Keith realised that he was about to agree to be blackmailed by a man claiming to be a government official who appeared to have an unhealthy interest in the wellbeing of a perfectly ordinary ex-soldier. _Why does everything always go weird whenever the Freak gets involved? All he did was get a flatmate and look what he's done to me! Would the world end if Sherlock Holmes just did something _normal_ for a change?_

"What do you want me to do?" Keith asked, resigned.

The smile intensified slightly; a flicker of satisfaction showed in the man's disconcertingly familiar eyes. "Well, firstly, Mr Anderson, please refrain from further injuring the good doctor yourself. Beyond that, simply keep an eye on him, during any investigations you may both participate in. I will contact you occasionally for progress reports; discreetly, of course."

"Of course," Keith managed.

"Good. I'm so glad that we were able to come to an arrangement; it would be such a shame for all of your hard work at Scotland Yard to be tainted by such a loss of reputation." The man rose from his seat, gathering file and umbrella as if at the end of a perfectly ordinary meeting.

"Hang, on; wait, that's it?" Keith spluttered.

The eyebrow twitched once again. "You were expecting something else?"

"What if I need to contact you? I don't even know your name!"

"My name would mean very little to you, Mr Anderson. And don't worry about contacting me; your communications are being monitored, for evidence gathering purposes. Simply text the Times crossword solutions number in an emergency and I will be in touch."

The man gave his umbrella a little twirl, watching the tip intently as it squeaked slightly on the vulcanised flooring. "I should mention… if, Mr Anderson, you should fail in your allotted task, and Doctor Watson suffers death or injury of any kind, I hardly need tell you that the consequences will be… unpleasant, if I deem you to be at fault in any way." The cold eyes glittered, promising unimaginable horrors. Keith felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

"Oh, and while I have no _personal_ interest in your extra-marital activities, by the time your wife, her lawyers, their accountants, the police and the tabloids are finished with you, whatever is left will be of very little use to me. If, therefore, your indiscretions are discovered without my involvement, I will consider our little arrangement null and void and turn over the evidence to the relevant authorities immediately. Is that sufficiently clear for you?" He asked condescendingly.

"I'm not an idiot," Keith snapped back.

"I do not recall saying you were," the man replied mildly, with carefully restrained condescension.

"It was implied. Look, I know that you're holding all the keys, guarding all the doors… and there's nothing I can do about it. I'll do whatever you say, just… please… don't…"

"Keep to the terms of our agreement, Mr Anderson, and I shall have no need to reveal this information to anyone. Ignorance is, as they say, bliss, is it not? Indeed, you should be appreciative of my efforts; after all, you must have realised that someone would eventually find you out. It was… inevitable."

Umbrella Man bestowed him with a superior little smile. "Consider yourself fortunate that I had a use in mind for you; or the threat of arrest would have not have been a mere threat. Good afternoon, Mr Anderson."

The man swept out, closely followed by the two silent hulks of Jones and Brown. They left the door open behind them.

Anderson took a moment to bury his face in his shaking hands… and swore violently as he was abruptly reminded of his injury.

_Oh, God… He's asking me to be _grateful_ to be blackmailed by him… on the behalf of a nobody of a man who can only get his kicks by trailing around after a psychopath._

_Who the hell did Watson save? A name not unfamiliar… who's famous in Afghanistan? Nobody; well, except for… Oh, bloody hell… _Her Majesty's_ government… There's only one soldier who's served in Afghanistan who's at all important; no one else I've heard of has been mental enough to go out there, unless you count newsreaders and all those politicians who visit the troops for photo opportunities…_

_It's the only explanation. John Watson must have saved Prince Harry's life._

Keith allowed a smug little smile to cross his heavily plastered features. _How's that for a deduction, Sherlock?_

SHSHSHSHSH

Ahh, Anderson. Wrong again. Did I make it clear enough that Mycroft was referring to John saving Sherlock's life by shooting the cabby?

Also, is it wrong that I now feel a distinct urge to draw a comic strip about the adventures of Umbrella Man and PDA Girl? (Obviously with Skull Boy and Doctor Dangerous as recurring characters.)

Yep, thought so. Please let me know if you liked.


	9. The Good Influence

A/N: Once again, my sincerest appreciation goes out to everyone reading, reviewing and generally interested in this story.

Um, yes, I am alive. This has taken an absolute age to get done, mostly because work has been insanely busy lately and I just haven't had the energy to write. But now, fortunately, I have come down with an absolutely hideous cold, so I've been tucked up in bed high on cough syrup for the past couple of days finishing this off.

Unfortunately for those of you who were hoping for The Continuing Adventures of Umbrella Man, I have a condition known as CLOAT (Complete Lack of Artistic Talent), and spleens are harder to draw than you'd think.

So my comic strip turned out as some dodgy stick men scribbled on the back of my writing pad which I am far too embarrassed to show anyone. It did, however, feature Sherlock using the phrase "Put the tea down by the spleen, would you, John?"

If anyone else would like to have a go, feel free.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 9: The Good Influence

Lestrade followed Sherlock out of the cab, not at all surprised to see that the consulting detective's description to John had been correct. The street was indeed lined with slightly decrepit Victorian terraced houses, the identical red brick and tiny windowed properties only distinguished from one another by the occasional window box or brightly painted front door. Most of them had long since been knocked through into flats; the rows of buzzers for the various floors looked incongruous against the old-fashioned doorways.

Sherlock, as per usual, was studying his surroundings with that familiar laser like intensity, disregarding anything he did not consider important to his investigation. _Of course,_ the DI mused darkly, as he rummaged in his pockets, _the great Sherlock Holmes is far too cerebral to condescend to mere human necessities like paying his own cab fare._

By the time Lestrade had caught up with him, Sherlock was already pressing insistently on the button marked 5F. "D'you always have to forget to pay the cabbie?" He huffed. "I'dve thought you'd be more careful about upsetting them after one nearly murdered you…"

"Consider it part of my expenses, Lestrade; and he didn't nearly murder me, I had the situation perfectly under control." _If Sherlock weren't a grown man with an IQ the size of the Greek budget deficit, I'd call that expression a pout._

"Yeah, right up until the point where an unidentified sniper shot the bloke dead out of the blue," Greg needled. "One you had no idea was there, and could very easily have taken you out as well without you being any the wiser."

Sherlock's lips twitched up at the corners. "Oh, I sincerely doubt that," he replied, almost smugly. Lestrade's brow furrowed. He considered himself fairly well educated in Sherlock-speak; and that tone was definitely one of his many variations on 'I know something you don't know'. "Even a marksman as skilled as the one who killed Hope would have needed at least four seconds to readjust his aim to me," Sherlock continued smoothly. "And I can cover a considerable distance in four seconds."

"Only because you're built like a bloody greyhound," Lestrade grumbled back. _Just typical Sherlockian arrogance, then, nothing deeper to it… probably._

The consultant shot him a glare and abruptly changed the subject back to the present case. "Still no answer, not even a curtain twitching. Looks like we'll have use for your warrant card; here." He produced it from his own pocket and handed it back to the DI.

"_Sherlock!_ How many times do I have to tell you not to pinch my ID? God knows you must have a dozen of them by now…"

"Seventeen, at the last count. And I only take them when you annoy me; you stop being stupid and I'll stop picking your pockets."

"Why the hell do I put up with you?" Lestrade asked aloud, genuinely unable to remember a single good reason for it at that particular moment.

"Because you're desperate," Sherlock replied to the mostly rhetorical question. "And refreshingly for a police officer, catching murderers is slightly more important to you than your own ego. Come on then, Inspector; use your authority. It does come in useful on occasion," he added disdainfully.

_Just once in a while, I'd love for the smug git to get something wrong._ Lestrade raised his eyes heavenwards for a moment at the impossibility of Sherlock Holmes before elbowing past him to reach the buttons. Greg buzzed every floor until one picked up and convinced the neighbour to let him in by waving his warrant card up at the window. Sherlock followed unusually quietly, his eyes taking in every detail as they followed the slightly batty old lady from 3B into the creaky but fully functional lift at the end of the hall.

"Thought you said there wouldn't be a lift," Lestrade said casually, after the doors closed behind the old lady on the third floor to take them up to the fifth.

"Yes; well. It was unexpected." Sherlock replied stiffly.

"So, nothing to do with you wanting John to go home and rest his leg with a big dose of painkillers, then?" He teased gently.

"He's much less likely to make me tea when he's in pain. You're very interested in John today, Inspector."

"He's an interesting man."

Sherlock smiled suddenly. "_Very_ interesting. Well done, Inspector, that's the first intelligent thing you've said all day."

_Blimey; 'very interesting?' That's the highest praise I've ever heard Sherlock give anything, and that was a particularly gruesome murder which to this day, has left me incapable of so much as looking at a cheesecake without shuddering, let alone eating one._

Lestrade was still a touch stunned when the lift doors opened and Sherlock strode out, digging a roll of black fabric out of his coat pocket as he dropped to one knee in front of the door marked 5F. Silvery metal gleamed as he unrolled it.

"Lock picks?" Greg managed incredulously, recognising his intent. "There's a DI standing right behind you and you dig out a set of lock picks?"

"Well how else do you suggest we get in?" He mumbled distractedly, holding one of the delicate looking instruments between his teeth as he inserted another into the keyhole. He paused long enough to remove the tool from his mouth before continuing. "Kicking the door in could destroy valuable evidence."

"Sherlock! You can't just break into people's homes…" Sherlock twisted the tool and a loud click came from the lock.

"Ah," The consultant said triumphantly. "Simple three tumbler design; child's play." He turned the handle to open the door and replaced his tools swiftly into their places. He rose back to his feet, the kit vanishing back into the pocket, and walked in as if he owned the place. "If it bothers you that much, I'll lock it again when I have the data I need."

_A concession from Sherlock Holmes; that's a bloody first. John must've been training him like Pavlov's sodding dog_.

"Mrs Agini?" Lestrade called out, as he followed Sherlock in, determined to show at least a little respect for private property. "Mrs Agini, it's the police!" There was no response.

"Hmm… interesting," Sherlock mused under his breath, his grey eyes scanning intently over the open plan kitchen and living room, decorated in a vaguely unpleasant pale green. The bold, geometric pattern in the wallpaper was particularly off-putting.

"What's interesting?" Lestrade asked, glancing around. The flat was nothing special, not particularly fancy or expensive looking. At least, Greg didn't think so; Sherlock, predictably, was examining everything in sight in microscopic detail. He ran his long, leather-gloved fingers over the coffee table, the mantelpiece, the top of the wedding photo on one wall, and then crouched to peer behind the radiator.

"This place. Can't you see what's wrong with it?"

"What d'you mean, what's wrong with it? It's just a normal flat…"

"Normal?" Sherlock exclaimed. "How did you get promoted to DI with a brain that minute? Look around you! _Observe;_ what's the first thing you notice about this place?"

"Well… I don't think much of the wallpaper?" Greg ventured.

Sherlock shot him one of his more savage 'how can you be such an idiot?' glares. "I mean _look,_ Lestrade, really look; come on, tell me what you see."

"It's just a flat, Sherlock. Err… from the photos… owned by a middle aged couple with no kids, but we knew that… um… it's… quite tidy…"

"Quite tidy! It's immaculate. I haven't found so much as a speck of dust or a single cobweb anywhere; who dusts behind their radiators? This place couldn't be any cleaner if it'd been invaded by Kim and Aggie's rabid mother-in-laws." He rose to his feet and crossed the room only to drop back to his knees to examine the mock-coal gas fire.

"Well, we don't all live in a pigsty, Sherlock, I dunno how John puts up with your mess… Hang on; Kim and Aggie? Since when do you watch crap reality TV?"

"I don't. Mrs Hudson and John both have deplorable taste in entertainment," Sherlock replied distractedly, slipping off a glove to rub something between his fingertips. He even cautiously tasted it.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "'How Clean Is Your House?' John? Really?" He asked incredulously.

"He says it makes him feel better about all the human remains in the flat. And anyway, you understood the reference, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I'm married; I've got an excuse to watch prime time rubbish," Greg replied. He smirked. "Never thought I'd see the day when _you_ had to do your husbandly duties…"

Sherlock snorted in disgust as he stood to examine the kitchen area. "Oh, not you as well. Why must the whole world be so insufferably dull and boring and pedestrian?" He sniffed the sink, opened the fridge and then rocked it back towards the wall to peer underneath.

"Probably because we're still all in shock that you've actually found someone willing to live with you," he answered wryly, watching his antics. "Come on, then; gimmie. What've you worked out?"

"Not yet. Need to check something first." The lanky consultant allowed the fridge to come to rest safely on the linoleum and then stalked towards the two doors at the end of the room. The first door swung open easily to reveal an equally tidy bedroom in beige; the second a bathroom in pale blue.

"Ahh," he breathed, in satisfaction, looking into the latter.

Lestrade craned his head to see what was so interesting over his shoulder.

"Oh, God…" he managed, bulling his way past Sherlock to rest two fingers on the wrist splayed over the edge of the bath.

"Don't bother, Lestrade; she's been dead a good two hours," he said, a touch huffily, as he straightened his coat.

Greg ignored him, allowing his eyes to close briefly as the cool, waxy skin remained still under his fingertips. _The poor woman… knocked about by her husband for years and now she has to die like this._

Mrs Leslie Agini lay on her back in the dry bathtub, wearing a painfully floral dress that did nothing to flatter her short, dumpy figure. Greying, dishwater blonde hair fell loosely to her shoulders and her slack features, deeply lined with anxiety, had been liberally adorned with makeup. Two empty medication bottles had been left neatly balanced on the edge of the bath. One of Sherlock's elegantly gloved hands reached over Lestrade's shoulder to snatch one up for examination.

"Suicide, do you think?" The DI asked, as matter-of-factly as he could. "Or made to look like one?" There was no response. "Sherlock?" He turned to look back at the doorway and found his consulting detective's elegant silhouette conspicuously absent. "Sherlock! Put that bottle back, it's evidence!"

Grumbling under his breath, Lestrade left the body to search for him… and found himself alone in the flat, the door wide open.

_Brilliant. Just… brilliant. We go to question the widow, find her dead, and Sherlock swans off into the distance without even bothering to tell me if she was murdered. And of course he has to pinch a vital piece of evidence while he's at it._

_He knows police procedure by now; as the first officer on the scene, I have to stay here and secure it until uniform and forensics can get here, plus do absolutely piles of additional paperwork, leaving him free to run off without me being able to follow him._

Lestrade pulled out his mobile and pinched the bridge of his nose as he rang Sally.

"Donovan," she answered, sounding like she was juggling the phone with about eight other objects. Knowing her, she probably was.

"I need forensics, uniform and you at Agini's flat ASAP," he said grimly. "Found the wife's body in the bath and Sherlock's scarpered."

"Oh, Christ," she replied heavily. "I'll phone and put back the meeting with the haulage company a couple of hours; see you there in… forty minutes?"

"Make it more than a couple of hours," Lestrade replied. "He legged it with some of the evidence; I think we're going to have to turn Baker Street over again…"

_I thought John was going to be a good influence, but apparently he's not a miracle worker._

_Damn. I was getting my hopes up about that._

SHSHSHSHSH

Let me know what you thought. Promise the next one will be quicker, and hopefully a bit longer, too…


	10. The Smoking Chicken

A/N: Once again, my deepest appreciation goes out to everyone following this story.

Fellow Smegheads (AKA Red Dwarf fans) will recognise a line in this chapter from one of the first scenes of S1, Ep1 "The End". I couldn't help myself.

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 10: The Smoking Chicken

For the second time in Sherlock's relatively short tenure there, Sally Donovan found herself turning up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street in latex gloves and a severely bad mood. Lestrade hadn't had as long to collect volunteers for his 'drugs bust' this time; in the end, it was just the DI, Donovan, a very shifty looking Anderson and a couple of uniforms.

_Something's definitely wrong with Keith today… I'm not sure if it was the public dressing down from Lestrade or the apology he had to make to Watson, but he's been acting very jumpy; keeps looking round as if he expects to be followed. Someone tapped him on the shoulder at the flat crime scene and he jumped so badly he almost did a header into the bath on top of the corpse._

As before, the door was answered by the slightly dotty elderly landlady, whom Sally couldn't help feeling sorry for. _The poor woman must have some kind of dementia or something; why else would she be so happy to rent a flat to Sherlock Holmes? I know for a fact his last landlady in that rat hole on Montague Street was a lush who was barely conscious long enough to collect the rent every month, let alone notice what the Freak did to the place. And even she kicked him out on his arse after six months._

"Hello again, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade said wryly.

"Inspector Lestrade," she all but cooed, patting hastily at her hair. "Here to see Sherlock again, are we?"

"'Fraid so. He in?"

"I don't think so, dear; he and John went out early and I haven't seen either of them since. You know how he gets when there's a nice juicy murder on. Would you like to come in and wait?"

_A nice juicy murder? Oh, God; either that sweet little old lady is the most unlikely serial killer who ever lived or whatever's wrong with John Watson is turning into an epidemic. At the moment, I'm not sure which option is the more frightening._

"Wait for what?" A familiar posh baritone chipped in as the man himself elbowed his way through the police ranks to reach his door.

"You, you utter…" Lestrade hesitated, with a glance at Mrs Hudson. Sally could almost see him mentally deleting profanities from the rest of the sentence and finding absolutely nothing left. _"…Sherlock,"_ he decided on eventually. In that tone, it might as well have been an expletive. "How many times do I have to tell you? You _can't_ just run off with evidence whenever it takes your fancy!"

"I did not _run off_, Lestrade; I went to Bart's labs to analyse the residue in the bottle. Mass spectroscopy is a significantly less time consuming process when Anderson is removed from the equation."

"And collecting evidence that's admissible in court is significantly easier when _you_ don't nick it before forensics even get to the scene," the DI snapped back tartly.

"It's hardly my fault that they're slow, is it?" Sally could feel Anderson bristling at her shoulder at that one. "Are you faking another drugs bust, or do you have an actual reason to be here this time?"

"We're here to get our bloody evidence back, Sherlock; gimmie the bottle and I'll have no need to search the place. I'd prefer not to have to disturb John, but I will if you force me to."

"Oh! Is the doctor feeling poorly again?" Mrs Hudson chipped in. "D'you think he'd benefit from one of my herbal soothers? They do wonders for my dicky hip…"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll mention it to him when he wakes up," Sherlock replied, heading inside to the stairs. "You lot might as well come in, I suppose; John has no tolerance for opioids. A single dose knocked him flat for a good six hours last time, he won't hear a thing. Mind the tray at the top of the stairs," he added casually, as he shed his coat and bounded up them. "I've spent almost a week collecting data on that pig's brain, I will be most unhappy if some moronic policeman manages to tread in it."

With a noticeable shudder, Sally stepped into the chaos that was Sherlock's living room and looked around in vain for any evidence that another man lived there too.

_The place is a bit tidier than I remember… and there's some washing up on the draining board that looks like it should belong in an actual kitchen rather than a mad scientist's laboratory. The rest of it, though… The cow skull, the stuffed bat, the heaps of books and papers spilled across the floor… How could anyone possibly stand to live like this?_

"Come on, Sherlock; hand it over," Lestrade ordered in his most authoritative tone, holding out a hand expectantly. "Let's not waste any more time than we have to."

"You're the one wasting time, Lestrade, not me. Here." Sherlock produced an evidence bag from his pocket and slapped it into the waiting palm. "You might as well have it; I'd finished with my analysis anyway. Honestly; if you feel the need to turn the flat over every time I take a case for you it's going to greatly undermine my efficiency."

Something caught Sally's eye on the coffee table between a mug of cold tea and a large book entitled 'Isomorphism and Crystallography in Feldspathoid Minerals.'

"Freak, is that a _gun_ on your table?" She blurted.

"No, it's a chicken," Sherlock deadpanned absently.

Hastily, the nervous Anderson donned a latex glove and picked it up, examining it closely.

"It's real…" he checked the slide gingerly, a blissful, wondering expression crossing his heavily plastered features. "And it's loaded."

_I don't think I've ever seen Keith look that happy. And isn't _that_ a blow to my ego._

"Well, well, well; Sherlock Holmes, you're in really big trouble now," Anderson smirked as he allowed the weapon to dangle from his finger by the trigger guard. "Because even if handguns were legal, I sincerely doubt anyone would give a freak like you a firearms licence."

"I don't need one," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Don't need one?" Sally exclaimed. "Of course you do; the law applies to everyone, Freak, you included."

"Possession of an unlicensed firearm is a serious offence, Sherlock," Lestrade interjected reluctantly. "I can't just ignore it…"

"Idiots, the lot of you! Can you not observe even the most basic of facts? I'm astonished you haven't all walked out under buses by now, the way you miss the utterly obvious right before your eyes!"

"Now just you wait a minute…" Anderson replied hotly.

In the midst of the ensuing argument, the arrival of John stumping blearily down the stairs looking rumpled (in a way that didn't make him look like an adorable sleepy five year old _at all_, and she'd swear to it in court if she had to) went almost completely unnoticed. Almost.

"And what are you doing conscious?" The Consulting Detective demanded, in the same breath as a particularly scathing comment about Keith's mental capacity. "I told you to take your medication!"

"You also said you'd be needing me again later, Sherlock," John replied, completely unfazed, voice a touch rough from sleep. Oddly enough, Anderson flinched heavily at hearing the doctor's mild tones and stepped behind the closest PC as if using him as a human shield. _Weird; Keith definitely wasn't that bothered by Watson at the Yard… What could have changed since then?_

"I do know a thing or two about prescription drugs, you know," John continued. "I cut down the dose to make sure I'd have a clear head. What's he done this time, Lestrade?"

"He stole evidence from a crime scene; again," the DI informed him, rolling his eyes.

John's brow furrowed. "A crime scene? I thought you were just going to talk to the victim's wife, or did I miss something important?" _Does it count as proof of insanity that he seems disappointed to have missed out on a crime scene?_

"Not much," Sherlock replied, his harsh features softening slightly as he explained. "Found her dead when we got there; I hoped it might be connected to the murder, but after my chemical analysis of the residue in the medication bottle, I'm afraid it turned out to be a dreadfully dull common or garden suicide."

"You can't possibly know for certain that she killed herself," Anderson scoffed, carefully keeping the PC between himself and Watson. "A husband and wife don't just turn up dead within forty eight hours of one another without there being _some_ link…"

"Anderson, just being punched in the face does not give you licence to be even more insufferably idiotic than usual, no matter how frightened of John it's made you," Sherlock snapped. "It's perfectly possible for married couples to die in separate incidents in quick succession. Mr Agini was deliberately poisoned with Atropine; Mrs Agini took a massive self-administered overdose of prescription antidepressants. No link whatsoever, merely coincidental timing."

"How could you tell?" Asked John interestedly.

"Very easily. It was obvious that the flat had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life a few hours before we arrived; the level of cleanliness was frankly disturbing and there was a lingering aroma of cleaning products. There was no food whatsoever in the fridge, nothing perishable like fruit or vegetables anywhere, not even milk. Bins were freshly emptied, likely she threw it all away knowing it would only go off. Obviously she'd done the work herself; her hands were rough and reddened from chemicals and immersion in water as well as physical effort."

"Then there was her clothing; that dress was at least ten years out of fashion and too tight and yet she chose put it on this morning, despite it having been untouched in her wardrobe for years, judging from the stretch of the shoulders caused by the coat hanger. Perhaps it was her favourite; or perhaps held some sentimental significance. Difficult to tell at this point. Then there's the makeup; clumsily applied, she's not used to wearing it. She wanted to make herself attractive before she died, which again implies that she knew it was coming, at least."

"There were no bruises or contusions on the body, am I right?" Anderson's slightly stunned expression made it obvious that he was. "And no evidence of anyone else in the flat at the time. The pills she took were all prescribed to her, but she must have been stockpiling them for the attempt. My analysis on the residue in the medication bottle confirmed it to have contained fluoxetine, just as it says on the label. More commonly known as Prozac; not tampered with in any way. So, clean flat, best dress, prescribed antidepressants, and judging from the pristine state of her home, I would guess she suffered from a mental disorder. Obsessive-compulsive at the very least, probably. Couldn't be anything but a suicide."

"Amazing," John praised warmly, with a fond smile at his flatmate. Briefly, Sherlock looked even more pleased with himself than usual.

_Urgh… I think I'm going to puke. Watson's actually _encouraging_ the Freak to enjoy the tragic suicide of a mentally ill beaten housewife as if it were _entertainment_._

Sherlock arched his neck as proudly as any racehorse. "And as if that wasn't enough, there's the ash in the fireplace," he added, excessively casual.

"Ash?" Lestrade interrupted. "I thought you said it had been cleaned?"

"Oh, it had, but it proved impossible to remove all trace of the ash from the moulded plastic fake coals of the gas fire. A very specific type of ash; she'd been burning paper."

"Paper?" Sally rolled her eyes. "Of course; why didn't I think of that? Setting fire to an overdue gas bill obviously means she killed herself."

"It wasn't a gas bill, Donovan, I've done numerous studies on the properties of various types of ash and the texture was all wrong. No, it was good quality, heavy gauge paper, high fibre content; such as the type used by, for example, solicitors." Anderson winced. _His nose must be really bothering him,_ Sally thought. "Now why would a woman so intensely houseproud want to mess up her home by burning papers in the gas fire?"

"Getting rid of evidence?" Lestrade suggested.

"Obviously; but evidence of what?"

"You said they were separated… divorce papers?" Hazarded John.

"Exactly!" Sherlock crowed, in delight. "Mrs Agini decided she couldn't face a divorce, so she burned the papers to get rid of the evidence, cleaned the flat to her idea of perfection, put on her best dress and downed a massive overdose of antidepressants. Suicide, cut and dry."

"D'you think she's the one who killed her husband, then, and then topped herself?" The DI enquired logically.

"Of _course_ she didn't, Lestrade," Sherlock all but snarled, long arms flailing uncontrollably in frustration at the stupidity of everyone else. "Honestly, do at least try to engage what brain cells you have before you open your mouth in my presence. Where would a beaten housewife get hold of atropine, and even if she could how would she know what to do with it? No, the wife is a dead end; her death is entirely incidental to her husband's. When are we going to the haulage company?"

"_We_ aren't going anywhere, Freak," Sally snapped. "Except back to the Yard to get you locked up where you belong!"

"You're arresting Sherlock?" John interceded in surprise. "Why, what for?"

"We found a gun, John," Lestrade told him, not without sympathy.

"And guess who doesn't have a licence for it?" Sally gloated.

"Well, of course _he_ doesn't," John said, brow furrowing. "It's mine."

"Yours?" Anderson spluttered, suddenly looking unaccountably nervous.

"Yes. I do live here too, you know."

"Thank you, John, for pointing out that incredibly obvious fact, which the combined intellects of five of New Scotland Yard's _finest_ proved completely incapable of grasping." Sherlock declared triumphantly.

"What the hell is a bloke like you doing with a gun?" Asked Donovan incredulously. "You're just trying to take the flak for the freak, aren't you?"

"What flak? It's my army service pistol, and I'm still, technically, Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John explained blithely. "I'm trained and licensed to use hand weapons up to and including a small RPG; the worst you could charge me with is improper storage. You can check the registration number on the barrel if you don't believe me."

"Somehow, I sincerely doubt the army lets every bloke who gets sent home from Afghanistan take a gun home with them," Sally responded suspiciously.

"Well, not ordinarily, no. But I just happened to be the surgeon who saved the life of the nephew of the bloke responsible for taking it off me, so he got a bit… creative… with the paperwork. Don't worry, I wouldn't trust Sherlock with it; I'm not stupid."

"Bloody glad to hear it," replied Lestrade with feeling, fixing John with an oddly intent stare, as if he were trying to convey some deeper message. The doctor met his gaze steadily, expression almost suspiciously neutral.

Donovan rolled her eyes. _And having a deadly weapon in the hands of a bloke loopy enough to live with Holmes is _so much_ better…_

SHSHSHSHSH

SLIGHT EDIT here, thanks to all the lovely helpful reviews provided by people who actually know something about gun licensing laws. I'm certain soldiers aren't actually allowed to take their guns home with them, but hopefully the paperwork-fudge excuse is enough for the purposes of fanfiction.

And now, on to the _epically_ long-awaited new chapter...


	11. Bejumpered

A/N: I'M BACK!

Sorry this has taken… six months… longer than I said it would to update. There was… Well, S2, and err, you know, stuff, and I was ill, and then other people were ill, and I was sort of busy looking after them, and then… err… OK, out of excuses now.

Nevertheless, to the many, many readers who have read, favourited or reviewed this story begging for updates, THANK YOU FOR STICKING WITH IT! I think I do now have a vague idea of where this story is going, and since I now know whodunnit, I can move it along a bit and let you all in on the answer too.

I have also done a bit of editing to fit in with S2 cannon, tweaked a few things here and there, and partially rewritten the end of chapter 10 and the bit about John's medal in chapter 7 after some additional research. No really major changes, but as it's been so long you might want to refresh your memories.

And so, epic Author's Note over with, on with the story… And I think I've coined an entirely new word for the title…

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 11: Bejumpered

Greg Lestrade thought vaguely that it was a good thing he'd let Donovan drive; he was barely aware of the outside world as they made their way to the haulage yard down near Tilbury Docks.

_Bloody hell; it was John. John Watson killed Jeff Hope right in front of the great Sherlock bloody Holmes… And there's no way he doesn't know, that's probably why Sherlock likes the bloke so bloody much. _

_He said, didn't he, at the time? Military man, used to violence, strong principles, crack shot… and then Sherlock took it all back and wandered off to talk to John. At the time, I thought he was just being his usual weird self; or deliberately winding me up. All I knew about John was his name, his profession and nothing else; he was just a bland little man suddenly following Sherlock around. _

_And now… Now, it turns out Doctor John Watson is a decorated war hero with a more or less legal gun who shoots serial killers dead to save Sherlock from his own suicidal tendencies. _

_Oh, god… What the hell am I going to do? John is, technically, a murderer, although God knows that bastard cabbie deserved it. Plus I'd never be able to scrape together enough evidence to get him within a mile of court, not after all this time. Even less without Sherlock's testimony, because I highly doubt he'd help put the man behind bars for saving his life. _

_And then there's all the good he's done for Sherlock. The Doctor's only been around a couple of weeks and already he's got our self-proclaimed 'high functioning sociopath' worrying about his leg and calculating his reaction to painkillers. Even after five years, I doubt Sherlock even remembers that 'Detective Inspector' isn't actually my first name. _

_So what can I do? I know there's no jury in the world who'd convict him, but I can't just let the fact that he killed a man right under the noses of half of Scotland Yard go like it doesn't matter_. Especially _if anyone ever finds out I knew about it. _

Lestrade still hadn't made his mind up by the time they slid to a halt outside the haulage yard. Sherlock and John had, as usual, followed in a black cab. _God knows how much Sherlock racks up in taxi fare in a month_, Lestrade mused_. Although I can't really blame him for having an aversion to the back seats of police cars, considering his history with them._

The little group were shown into the manager's office by a very… perky… redheaded receptionist, who, predictably, kept fluttering her heavily made up eyes at a thoroughly oblivious Sherlock. Greg did notice Anderson's eyes straying to her excessively short skirt, though; and by the expression on her face, Donovan hadn't missed his attention either. _No harm in _looking;_ although doing it in front of a recently ex-girlfriend with an aggressive streak a mile wide is not exactly the wisest thing a bloke can do. _

They were met by Mike Ryder, the owner and manager of the haulage firm. Lestrade looked him over as he shook the man's hand and introduced the others, attempting to apply Sherlock's many grudging lessons about observation. _Short; even Donovan has to look down at him. Middle-aged spread, receding hairline; I'd put him at late forties. Firm handshake, not clammy in the least; not visibly nervous. Wedding ring, so married, family photos on his desk. Must be proud of still having a family business these days, going by all the black and white pictures of his predecessors on the walls. Other than that, the office looks like one of those IKEA display models; and it's much bigger than mine. I'm sure Sherlock's worked out his life story by now, but that's the best I can do._

"Well, Officers," Ryder began with what appeared to be genuine sorrow, "I can honestly say that this is the first time one of my staff has been murdered; so just tell me what you need and I'll give you all the help I can."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied brightly. "Then you can start by telling us where Mr Agini went on his last delivery and what cargo he was carrying."

"Oh… um… yes, er, let me just check the logs…" Ryder poked at his computer for a minute or so while Sherlock's usual laser-like scan of the room and everything in it continued unabated. He even went so far as to duck down and crane his neck to an impossible angle to peer under the desk and filing cabinet. Donovan rolled her eyes, and Anderson glared imminent death at the back of his head. John merely gave his eccentric flatmate a quizzical look, as if to ask what he was looking for. Sherlock grinned smugly in response. _Oh, God; I know that look. Sherlock's just spotted something he finds _interesting_ and he's already coming up with insults about how stupid the rest of us are for not noticing. _

"Ah… here we go. Blasted system's running slow; the new upgrade has a few bugs in it, these things always do." The oblivious Mr Ryder turned the screen to face them. "As you can see, Dave's last delivery was to Barcelona, Spain, with a refrigerated load of best Scottish black pudding."

"Black pudding?" John questioned in surprise. "Why on Earth would you be delivering that to Spain?"

"Well, it's fashionable these days, isn't it?" The businessman remarked, leaning back in his chair. "You can't sit down and watch Gordon Ramsey or Jamie Oliver without one of them doing something fancy with it. Besides, you know what British tourists are like; we want our tea and full English breakfast whether we're in Blackpool or Barbados."

_True_, Lestrade privately agreed. _It's amazing the lengths people will go to for a bacon butty and a decent cup of tea. If there were ever a great PG Tips shortage, the riots in the streets would make last summer look like a children's party. _

_Mind you, _my_ kids' parties always remind me of breaking up riots when I was in uniform…_

"Surely it would be cheaper to ship it, though?" He asked aloud.

"With the export duties going up like they are?" Briefly, Ryder looked harried, pushing his thinning hair back from his heavily creased forehead. "Nah; small volume, high value deliveries are much easier by road; and if we send the lorries out underfuelled, we can save a few quid by filling them up in Europe where the diesel's cheaper. Plus, of course, we had a return load. See there in the pink?" He pointed to the relevant part of the screen. "Finest Catalan Wild Boar Chorizo, going to some luxury delis and restaurants in London. Speciality meats are a lucrative market; our refrigerated fleet run them all over the world."

"Ah… _clever_," Sherlock remarked in satisfaction, pressing his hands together as if in prayer, his preferred thinking position. "_Very_ clever. What better way to put sniffer dogs off the scent than to smuggle illegal goods in lorries carrying meat products?"

Ryder's eyes widened; sweat broke out on his brow. "You think Dave was a _smuggler?_" He asked, with a good attempt at looking shocked. _Shame he's just that bit too desperate to be believed._

"I _know_ he was," Sherlock declared firmly. "And I'm equally certain he wasn't working alone. How else does a small haulage firm find the spare cash to redecorate their offices three times a year in these troubled financial times?"

Ryder's jaw flapped uncontrollably for several seconds. "What?" He spluttered. "How… Who told you that?"

"_Please_," The Consulting Detective drawled condescendingly. "These carpet tiles were laid no more than a year ago, judging by the wear; possibly by one ambidextrous man, but more likely by two, one of whom was left-handed. And yet there are flecks of two distinct different colours of paint on them - cast off from the decorators' brushes - only one of which is the frankly revolting beige we are currently enduring. No professional decorator ever does the painting before the flooring to avoid that very problem, so this office has been redecorated at least twice since the carpet was laid; three times in a year."

"It's not beige, it's taupé," Ryder protested weakly.

"No, John's jumper is taupé; not that he'd know that, since anyone whose entire wardrobe consists of checked shirts and bland lumpy knitwear can hardly be described as a devoted follower of fashion." Lestrade winced on the doctor's behalf. _And I thought he might possibly have a chance of keeping John around long term; Sherlock never can resist a good insult. Of anyone._

Sherlock never even glanced at his flatmate as he continued to prove the truth of Greg's thoughts. "Your walls could _possibly_ get away with 'three day old dishwater' but that never looks good in a decorator's sample kit; they are _beige._" He pronounced the word with enough scorn to make it sound like a crime. "And as if that wasn't enough, there are faint indents in the carpeting that are at least three inches too close together to have been made by the desk you have in here at the moment; and you used to have a hatstand in the corner. So, three redecorations within a year; very possibly more. Now…"

The Consulting Detective leaned forwards eagerly. "Show me the last lorry David Agini drove for you so I can prove exactly how you pay for your appalling decorating habit."

"I… I can show you the rig," Ryder managed, stumblingly. "But the container's long gone, it went out to Bratislava this morning full of Cumberland sausages…"

"Ah, well; one can't have everything," Sherlock replied cheerfully. "Come on, John; before Anderson has a chance to muck up all the evidence."

Ryder, sweat now dripping off him, lead them on a long and meandering route through the buildings to the lorry park and waved a hand at the correct vehicle. "There you go, that's her. I don't know what you think will be left to find; all the rigs are valeted after every long run."

"Oh, I'm certain there'll be more than enough data left over," the consulting detective told him absently, moving all around the massive gleaming cab in that odd jerky dance he used to see things from every possible angle.

"Donovan, escort Mr Ryder to wherever they keep the keys and get this lorry opened up," Lestrade ordered, trying to keep up at least the illusion that he was the one in charge here. "Anderson, get the Forensics kit from the car; might as well start processing straight away." The man looked rather disgruntled at the menial task, but sloped off nonetheless with a nervous glance or two at Watson. _Looks like that dressing down I gave him the other day really had an effect; I should try shouting more often. It seems to work wonders. _

Greg pulled out his phone and called through to the Yard to check that the tow he'd requested to take the lorry in as evidence was on its way. While he was on hold with the Vehicles department (and wondering idly if the hold music was technically a breech of the Geneva Convention), he watched resignedly as Sherlock crawled all over the exterior of the lorry, magnifier in hand. The lanky detective scrambled up to examine the roof and even squirmed underneath to gather all the data he could.

_Most people would tell him to stop making such an idiot of himself and act like a normal human being; or walk away and pretend they don't know him,_ Greg mused. _They wouldn't be slouched against the cab, leaning down as far possible on a bad leg trying to work out what the nutter who just thoroughly insulted him is looking at. _

_Luckily for Sherlock, John Watson clearly isn't most people_.

"Spotted anything?" The doctor asked interestedly.

"Nothing immediately useful; except I think this lorry's hit a badger recently."

The Doctor grimaced. "Lovely. Don't think I'm going to take that ridiculous coat to the dry cleaner's for you on this leg."

"Of course you can't, John. You wouldn't be able to carry it without creasing it to hell with your arm in that sling; I'll have to get Mrs Hudson to do it."

"She's got a bad hip, you lazy sod," John protested. "And that thing weighs a ton…"

"Don't exaggerate, it's only about, oh, 1.4 kilograms, assuming it's dry and the pockets are empty. She carries more than that home from the supermarket; she'll do fine."

"That doesn't mean… oh, never mind," he relented with a shake of his head. "What the hell does taupé mean, anyway?"

"That." Sherlock pointed up to John's cable-knit with one gloved hand. "A sort of light greyish brown. Derived from the Latin name for the European mole, _Talpa europaea_, which curiously enough, can be any colour from albino through all the shades of grey and brown to black. It was coined as a more exotic name for what was previously called 'mouse' in the early nineteenth century, which just goes to prove that fashion designers have always been highly illogical people."

"Ah. Investigated a murder at a fashion show once, did you?"

"I didn't learn _everything_ I know from murder cases, John," Sherlock replied a touch scornfully.

"I never said you did."

"Well, good." Sherlock busied himself with examining some miniscule detail through his magnifier while the doctor's brow creased for a moment.

"Theft?" John hazarded. "Maybe an obsessive stalker? Or was it something really bizarre that I'm never going to guess?"

Sherlock's lip curled up in a rapid half-grin. _That looks even odder than usual upside down, but I'd swear he almost looks… impressed? _

"Well done, John; almost perfectly right first time. In fact, there were several thefts of key pieces during London Fashion Week a couple of years ago. Quite interesting, as thefts go, but not an experience I'd wish to repeat. All those insipid shallow women and excessively camp men refusing to leave me alone long enough to so much as form a coherent thought; it was intolerable. And they all kept offering _me_ modelling work, as if prancing up and down a catwalk in a ridiculous outfit should be in any way appealing."

John snorted. "Only you, Sherlock, could possibly _complain_ about being chatted up by a bunch of supermodels," he grinned. "That poor secretary didn't stand a chance."

"The receptionist? What about her?"

"Oh, come on; I _know_ you understand more about human behaviour than that. You'd be a pretty crap detective if you couldn't tell the redhead was flirting with you."

"I've told you before, John; not my area. Although she's clearly _yours_, judging by the amount of time and attention you squandered on the study of her legs," he responded, tone aggrieved. "Perhaps if you focussed a little more on the _case_, you might have noticed the obvious evidence of the paint flecks."

Lestrade's eyes widened. _Is that… could that possibly be… is he… _jealous?_ Sherlock 'Not interested' Holmes? Bloody hell fire; I was so busy noticing Donovan glaring daggers at Anderson I didn't even think to look at Sherlock and John for the same thing…_

"I doubt it," The doctor answered straightforwardly. "Dead bodies I know inside and out, but don't ask me about interior decorating. Besides, I'm never going to be _half _as observant as you are," His open admiration provoked another little smile from his flatmate.

"Don't be modest, John, you're learning fast; and already _significantly_ better than Anderson, although that's not saying much. I doubt a deformed cow foetus could be worse. You'd do much better if you didn't allow yourself to be _distracted,_ however," he added, distastefully.

"I'm a single bloke, Sherlock, it's sort of hardwired in," John answered him, unabashed_. He almost sounds as if he's explaining to Sherlock why men look at women's legs, but surely the man can't be _that_ dense…_ "Biological imperative, and all that. We can't all be married to our work."

"Which is lucky, since you're currently unemployed, Doctor."

"Yes, thank you so much for reminding me. Job interviews always go _so_ much better for the candidate with only two working limbs."

"Or the one whose only suit has been in storage for the last… what, fifteen years? And belongs in Oxfam's rejects bin. What is it with you and brown, anyway? Virtually everything you own appears somewhere on the scale between Tan and Burnt Umber. Something to do with all those years in camouflage?"

"Sort of. I haven't been out of uniform more than a couple of months in… well, since I was a student. Who cares what my civvies look like as long as they're comfy and warm enough to keep my shoulder from aching? Not everyone spends eye-watering amounts of money on silk shirts and melodramatic coats, you know."

"Not everyone is permitted to… borrow… Mycroft's credit card for the purpose. Might as well squeeze every penny I can out of the git."

"Ah. This must be some previously unknown use of the word 'borrow' that only makes sense if you're a Holmes."

Greg missed the rest of the conversation as the tinny hold music tormenting his ear was replaced by a broad Essex accent telling him the lorry recovery vehicle would be with them in an hour. He finished his call just in time to shake his head in quiet amazement as John, leaning heavily against the lorry, managed to offer his good arm to help his flatmate wriggle out from underneath it, both of them giggling hysterically.

And Sherlock actually took it.

SHSHSHSHSH

Hope you liked. I can GUARRANTEE, cross my heart and hope to die, that the next chapter will be much much quicker in coming than the last one! Maybe a week. Or two. Three at the outside. Definitely within a month. Ish.

Let me know what you thought.


	12. The Old Soldier

A/N: Once again, I am staggered by the sheer number of people following this rarely updated, entirely non-romantic case fic. I had like forty reviews in two days for the last chapter, it was amazing!

As ever, my deepest gratitude goes out to everyone reading, alerting, favouriting and C2'ing this little story.

And, for once, it's not (much) later than I said it would be! (For which I have an excellent excuse in the form of my gorgeous new niece, who turned up slightly earlier than scheduled.)

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 12: The Old Soldier

By the time Anderson got back from the car with his kit, Sherlock was just dusting himself off (well, as much as encrusted badger entrails _can_ be dusted off) and champing at the bit to get inside the cab.

Keith's lip curled at the sight. _Being that enthusiastic about searching a delivery vehicle for evidence of smuggling cannot be normal. Look at him, he's practically _salivating_. Its no wonder Umbrella Man's people have been monitoring the Freak; they're just waiting for him to finally snap and murder someone. _

_I wonder why they're letting their precious Doctor so near a head case like Holmes? Maybe they've got their own sweepstake going about how long he'll be able to stick it out in that biohazard they call a flat. Or maybe they're hoping Watson will take Holmes out for them_…_ They did let him keep his gun, after all… _

"Where has Donovan gone for those keys? Outer Mongolia?" Sherlock was demanding agitatedly of Lestrade.

"Just be patient and wait, Sherlock, for once in your life, yeah?" The DI replied in exasperation. "They've only been five minutes."

"Five minutes more for our murderer to get away, Lestrade; as usual, Scotland Yard's incompetence proves exactly why you lot can't be trusted with any halfway decent case…"

"Oi!" The older man protested. "Less of the incompetence, you, or I'll give you the boot before you can say deduction. We've got enough now to finish this up on our own, you know, thick as you seem to think we are."

"Oh, _please." _Sherlock replied scathingly. "Who are you going to rely on to do the brainwork? Anderson? You'd be here 'till Christmas; and you'd still have to call me in to spell the difficult words for him in the forensics report. 'The' is just so _arduous_ for the intellectually challenged."

"I am in hearing range, you know, Freak," Keith bit out, trying hard to keep a lid on his temper.

"Well done, Anderson; at least one fragment of your deplorably undersized brain appears to be at least nominally functional. I had wondered."

"All right, enough handbags, Sherlock," John said irritatedly, his voice firm without having to be raised. "Just calm down a minute, will you?"

The great genius' forehead creased in confusion for a moment. "Handbags? What do women's accessories have to do with anything?"

"It's just an expression…" John began; and then promptly gave up. "Oh, never mind. Anderson, I don't suppose you've got a jemmy in there, have you?" He asked, nodding towards the bulky Forensics kit.

Sherlock brightened up, turning a smile on the unassuming doctor that made Keith's skin crawl. _That is the single most disturbing expression I have ever seen on a human face; assuming Sherlock Holmes actually counts as human. The Freak looks like he wants to take Watson apart to find out how he works. I wouldn't be surprised if he got his magnifier out again, like he would with a corpse… and what's worse, Watson would probably let him… Oh, God; now _that's_ a mental image I did _not_ need…_

"You are a positive cornucopia of useful skills, John," The Consulting Detective declared approvingly. "Doctor, soldier _and _car thief?"

"I've never stolen so much as a spare field dressing in my life, thank you very much, Sherlock," Watson replied tartly. "No, I picked up the knack on my first desert tour. The sand played merry hell with the doors on the Land Rovers before the mechanics managed to adapt them; we all had to learn how to get 'em open with a crowbar before we had to do it under fire. Came in handy a few times when I was trying to treat people who'd got trapped in damaged vehicles."

"Well, it's not going to come in handy here," Lestrade replied firmly. "The search warrant hasn't been signed off yet; if we force entry into that lorry without the owner's permission, any evidence we find will be inadmissible in court."

Sherlock snorted. "_We?_ Feeling optimistic, Lestrade? You lot could barely find your own building without that big revolving triangle outside. And courts don't interest me."

"Yes, I'd noticed. Which is why you managed to end up in the cells for contempt within ten minutes, the one and only time I let you within a mile of a judge."

"Eight and a half; and judges are idiots."

"Lucky for us, then, Sherlock," John observed mildly. He jerked his head, indicating the direction from which Donovan and the pale and clammy Mr Ryder were approaching.

"Excellent." The lanky detective darted forward to snatch the keys from Ryder's slightly shaky hand and had scrambled up the steps and inside within seconds, magnifier reappearing in his hand with almost preternatural speed. He paused for a moment to breathe in deeply; and then buried his face in the driver's seat cushion and inhaled again. Anderson winced. _Urgh; Eau Du Sweaty Lorry Driver's Arse. That cannot be even _remotely_ sanitary. _

Sherlock, with his customary contrariness, looked delighted. "Well, Mr Ryder, my compliments to your valets. They are certainly extremely through," he said gleefully.

"Um, thank you?" Ryder managed, his voice rising hopefully.

Sherlock grabbed the air-freshener that dangled from the rear-view mirror and sniffed it. "Magic Mint; newly installed, but still not quite enough to disguise the fact that every inch of upholstery in this lorry has been impregnated with peppermint oil to deter sniffer dogs. A dog's sense of smell is easily a million times more sensitive than a human's; one whiff of a powerful concentrated scent like pure peppermint oil is like setting off a flash bang grenade in their nose. Not even the best scent dogs could make out much past that; and even if they did show some unusual interest, the handlers would put it down to the meat cargo. _Brilliant_."

The businessman's face fell from cautious optimism to utter misery faster than a brick in a swimming pool, looking even more woebegone next to Sherlock's obvious delight.

_Look at him, like a kid in a sweet shop,_ thought Keith bitterly. _Bet he was a terrifying child; assuming he wasn't grown in a lab somewhere. _

_Why the hell does the Freak think the smell of everything is so important, anyway? It's not as if it's evidence you can hand over to the CPS and say, oh, he's definitely guilty, he smelled like a toothpaste factory. Maybe there's a bloodhound somewhere in the Holmes family tree. It would explain the long face and the obsession with chasing things_…

Sherlock's lanky frame managed to contort itself enough for him to examine the footwells and under the seats with his magnifier; although it did at one point require him to balance on his head with his feet braced against inside of the windscreen.

"Olympic gymnast in a previous life, Sherlock?" Asked Donovan, mockingly.

"Not all of us spend all our free time on our knees, Sally," he replied absentmindedly, sticking one improbably long leg out of the door in order to right himself.

Donovan's expression turned murderous. The homicidal Homicide detective reached out one deceptively delicate hand and yanked hard on Sherlock's flailing ankle, causing him to yelp and overbalance into a tangle of excessive elbows on the floor of the cab.

"Sergeant Donovan!" Lestrade rebuked harshly.

"You can't possibly say he didn't deserve it, Sir," she replied, dark satisfaction in every syllable.

Keith shot her a look that might have been scorching if not for the colourful bruising and plaster stuck across his face. _Oh, God; she's never looked better… When she's angry, Sally Donovan may well be the most desirable woman who ever lived… _

An odd sort of groaning noise emanated from the lorry.

"Sherlock?" Watson asked in concern, hobbling as close as he could to the door and peering in to check on his flatmate. "Are you all right? Did you hit your head?"

"Oh, Sally; well _done_," Sherlock replied, somewhat muffled but almost rapturous. "You've just made your very first genuinely helpful contribution to a case."

_Always reckoned Holmes as a bit of a masochist,_ thought Anderson sneeringly. _Being knocked arse over face by Sally grabbing his ankle is probably the most action he's seen in years. Unless that mental image of him and Watson I'm trying desperately to repress actually happened. _

Sherlock's uncharacteristic gratitude certainly seemed to make Watson's doctorly concern go up a notch or two. He hefted his walking stick in his good hand and hooked the handle around the doorsill to help him lever himself up the steep steps into the cab.

Keith felt a flare of panic as the damaged doctor wobbled precariously, scurrying forward to steady him before he could fall and worsen his injuries. "Careful!" He bit out, the memory of Umbrella Man's threats making his voice sharp with barely disguised terror.

"Oh… um, thanks, Anderson," John responded, sounding distinctly confused by (and slightly suspicious of) his concern. The doctor made it up into the driver's seat just as Sherlock managed to disentangle his limbs enough to scramble up from the floor.

"I can't believe I didn't see it earlier," the Consulting Detective exclaimed excitedly. "The one place normal, boring people never think to look!"

"What?" The doctor asked in confusion. "Are you _sure _you didn't hit your head?"

"John, shut up and pay attention," he demanded impatiently. "Look at the upholstery on the ceiling. What do you notice about it?"

Watson had to crane his neck awkwardly to accommodate his damaged shoulder, but managed to stare obediently at the utterly unremarkable greyish velour directly above him. "Um… Is it taupé?" He ventured.

"Not far off, actually, but not what I meant. Observe; how far from the top of your head would you say it is?"

"Oh, um, I dunno, eight or nine inches, maybe?"

"And the roof of the lorry? How far above you is that?"

"Depends how thick the steel is."

"Ten inches of steel? Because the roof of this lorry is a good eighteen inches above your head. The dimensions from outside to inside don't match up."

"Well, there could be, I don't know, wires or something up there…"

"That is what I assumed when I first started to examine the evidence; but there aren't any wires, are there, Mr Ryder?"

"I… um… uh… oh, God…" The beleaguered businessman dropped his head into his hands.

Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. "No; instead, there is a patch of discoloured fabric, right up here in the corner behind the driver's head, as if someone has been touching this particular area on a regular basis and leaving behind dirt and grease from their fingers. If Sally hadn't overbalanced me, even I might have taken a while to observe it."

"So there's a grubby patch on the ceiling; so what?" Keith drawled, rolling his eyes.

"_So,_ Anderson, there must be a reason _why_ people have been dirtying it. John, move." The doctor and the detective managed, with difficulty, to swap places in a rather… friendly… manoeuvre that resulted in Sherlock kneeling up on the driver's seat while John shuffled across to the passenger side.

"Watch the shoulder," was Watson's only protest against the thorough invasion of his personal space.

_The only reason a bloke would not object to another bloke crawling all over him like that is if they were shagging each other rotten on a regular basis. Being in the army must've made Watson _desperate; _there's no other possible excuse for shacking up with a six-foot psychopathic cokehead with all the charm, tact and social graces of an over-caffeinated rhinoceros. _

_On second thoughts, that may be overly harsh on the rhino…_

"What d'you see?" John asked, as his eccentric flatmate examined the ceiling carefully with his magnifier.

"There's a seam here, John, that's why this area has been so heavily handled. And the surface underneath has been disturbed; the fibres are all separated… sort of fuzzy, like… _Oh._ Oh!"

_Here it comes; another one of Holmes's bloody eureka moments. And we're all expected to be _so impressed_…_

"Thank you, George de Mestral," Sherlock murmured appreciatively.

"Who?" Demanded Lestrade. "Don't tell me you already know who did it…"

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade; George de Mestral was the French engineer who invented…" Sherlock reached up to grasp the near-invisible seam in the velour and tugged sharply, producing a harsh ripping sound. "The miracle of Velcro."

"Velcro was invented by NASA, Freak," Anderson corrected smartly, delighted to get one over on Holmes for once. "_Everyone_ knows that.

"Everyone is wrong, as per usual," Sherlock replied distractedly, still engrossed by his discovery. "Oh, _brilliant!_ Whoever came up with this, I want to shake him by the hand; the man is a _genius!_"

"What? What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock, his face alight with interest, yanked again, causing yet more upholstery to peel free. "The Velcro is here to conceal the false ceiling in the cab, John! There's an airtight container up here; a good eight inches of space across the whole roof to fill with smuggled cargo."

Anderson peered in the doorway and craned his neck to see what Holmes was talking about. Sherlock had pulled away the whole sheet of velour from the back of the cab, so it now dangled in front of the windscreen like a curtain. The roof was indeed completely covered by a translucent plastic box that fit into the space like it had been moulded there. In the centre was a hatch about a foot square, sunk into the surrounding plastic so the lid sat flush with the container. Several long strips of Velcro had been glued to the surface to make the plastic adhere to the velour covering, the inner surface of which was covered with corresponding strips.

_Bloody hell; it's a giant sticky lunchbox. And that's really all someone needed to invent to get drugs and guns through customs?_

"Aromatherapy oil, Tupperware and Velcro?" The doctor remarked, inadvertently voicing Keith's thoughts. "I'd be more tempted to suspect someone's mum than a brilliant criminal mastermind, if that's all it takes to turn an ordinary lorry into a smuggling operation."

"Ah, but it's such a thoroughly _elegant _solution, John; minimal engineering, simple to install or remove, well above the detection dogs' noses and the airtight seal and peppermint oil prevent them smelling the cargo."

Sherlock reached up and unclipped the opening of the plastic container, releasing a soft hiss of air as the seal was broken. He handed the lid down to John and stuck his whole head up through the gap.

"A_ha_," he said, his gleeful but slightly disappointed tones muffled by the plastic. "Someone's been clumsy; and I was so _impressed_, too. Apparently you just can't get really goodsmugglers these days. Anderson! Evidence jar, quickly!"

"All right, all right; keep your hair on," Keith grumbled, retreating to rummage through his kit.

Sherlock retracted his head from the hole in order to fit one arm in, gloved fingertips carefully feeling their way to the scrap of evidence he'd seen by memory alone. When he retracted them, there was a smudge of reddish material clinging to the latex.

Anderson stepped up into the cab to hand over the evidence jar and found Sherlock sniffing his own fingers, rubbing them carefully together to test the texture of the substance he'd collected with a blissful expression on his usually harsh features.

Keith rolled his eyes. "D'you want this jar now, or should I give you and the evidence some alone time first?" He didn't even get so much as a dirty look in response.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked interestedly. "Any ideas?"

"Just one," the consulting detective replied, in satisfaction.

"One? Is that all?" Anderson sneered. "I can think of half a dozen off the top of my head."

"Yes, well, Anderson; that's just the largest of the many differences between you and I."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"_I _am_ right_," Sherlock declared. Keith bristled; but before he could protest, the taller man cut across him. "Do you know exactly what it is that you are so cleverly smuggling across the continent, Mr Ryder?"

"I've never asked," Ryder replied miserably. "Some of the drivers like to try and guess what's in their packages; mostly they go for drugs, or diamonds, or Nazi gold. I've never joined in; I don't want to know."

"And maybe they were right, on previous trips. But Dave Agini's last special delivery was about, oh, ten, maybe fifteen pounds of Semtex," Sherlock announced with relish. "Military grade high explosives, the terrorist's weapon of choice. Tell me, Detective Inspector, what is the penalty for supplying terrorists with the means to blow up half of London these days?"

The three police officers simply stared at him with varying degrees of shock, horror and bewilderment. _Fifteen pounds of Semtex… bloody hell, the damage that could do; 7/7 all over again… But how can Sherlock possibly know that? Unless he really is part bloodhound, there is absolutely no way he can positively identify a smudge on his gloves as a powerful explosive… Or, of course, if he's somehow involved…_

"Unbelievable," said John, his voice warm with admiration. Sherlock smirked in response.

Ryder, in contrast, turned greyer than a corpse and fainted.

Anderson was still staring at the unconscious man in surprise when orders started to be barked at them from a most unexpected source.

"Right; Lestrade, call the bomb squad; Donovan, you're the fastest, run inside and grab a blanket, bottle of water, and something sugary out of the vending machine; Sherlock, help me down, and Anderson, don't let me fall on my face," Watson snapped out, sharply as any drill sergeant.

Even more surprisingly, all of them, including Sherlock, obeyed without question.

_Bloody hell,_ Keith thought, even as he steadied John while he stepped down to the tarmac. _Even if I weren't being blackmailed to keep Watson from harm under pain of bankrupcy, divorce and castration, I'd have done exactly what he said. That's a hell of a trick, getting even Holmes to follow orders without so much as shouting_.

Watson knelt beside his patient with a wince and began examining him deftly with his good right hand. Sherlock leapt elegantly down after him to watch, clearly in 'creepy stalker observation' mode again.

"John?" He asked.

"No evidence to suggest he's diabetic, pulse is fast but regular and starting to come down, so not a cardiac event. Could possibly be epilepsy, but considering the shock you just gave him, I'm going to call it a plain old fashioned vasovagal syncope, unless any other symptoms develop. Should be fine in ten minutes or so; but help me get him into the recovery position in case he throws up."

"Vaso – what?" Anderson asked. "Does he need an ambulance?"

"Shouldn't think so; didn't hit his head. He's just fainted."

"Well, why didn't you just say that then?"

"He did," Sherlock shot back, almost defensively. "Syncope is the correct medical term for fainting; as you would know, if you had two brain cells to rub together."

"Oh, well, excuse me for not having the entire Oxford Medical Dictionary memorised…" Anderson gave up the sarcasm to yelp in terror as John wobbled precariously on his bad leg, the limb almost giving way beneath him. Keith reached down to grab his good shoulder before the doctor could fall.

"Are you all right?" He demanded, several octaves higher than normal.

"Um, yeah, fine, thanks," John replied, startled by his reaction.

"You're very solicitous of John's health all of a sudden, Anderson," Sherlock said suspiciously. "_Ah_… of course. _He's_ got to you, hasn't he? Bribe or blackmail?"

"I… I don't know what you're talking about," he squeaked.

"Blackmail, then; I'm certain the evidence was more than sufficient, and the British Government does _so_ like to be efficient," the consultant told him. "It saves him from having to leave his cozy office and actually _doing_ anything."

John scrubbed an embarrassed hand across his face. "Oh, God. Anderson, please don't tell me you were abducted and lectured about yesterday by a posh, smarmy git who knew your whole life story and needs to be surgically detached from his umbrella."

Anderson's jaw dropped. "You know about him?" He gasped.

"Funnily enough, kidnappings tend to stick in my memory, yes. Look, Anderson, whatever he said, just tell him to stick it up his arse. I'll have a word, get him to back off a bit."

"You can do that? But he said… it was his job to… you know, look after you…"

"Me?" John looked amazed. "Bloody hell; I didn't think I even registered on his radar apart from as a convenient babysitter."

"Don't be flattered, John; Mycroft's control issues are older than I am," Sherlock told him, offering a hand to help his friend back to his feet.

"Now _that_ I can believe." The doctor's brow furrowed for a moment, regarding his flatmate suspiciously even as he accepted the help and leaned heavily on his walking stick to stand upright. "Hang on… _You_ didn't…"

"Oh, please." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't honestly think that _I _would need to resort to asking _Mycroft_ for help to blackmail _Anderson,_ do you?"

"Not _need,_ no," John replied thoughtfully, giving his flatmate the most searching look his homely features could manage. "But I wouldn't put it past you to do it for exactly that reason. Covering your tracks?"

Sherlock tilted his head, a smirk twitching at his lips. "You know, John, for you, that's actually quite perceptive," he said, sounding almost… impressed. "Completely wrong, of course, but if communicating with the Walrus were not so utterly distasteful to me as to approach physical pain, that would not be a bad deduction."

"The Walrus?" Anderson ventured, in confusion. "What, is that, like, a codename, or something?"

"Hardly," Sherlock drawled. "He once embarked on a thoroughly ill advised attempt to grow a moustache."

"A moustache? Mycroft? Mr I'm-So-Obsessive-Compulsive-I-Have-The-Creases-Starched-And-Pressed-Into-The-Brolly-Every-Morning-Mycroft?"

"The very same," Sherlock replied, grinning broadly at the description. "I've never laughed so much in my life. Unfortunately, he managed to seize and destroy all photographic evidence; a loss for the nation, I've always thought."

"How awful was it?"

"It was… oddly ginger."

John considered this image for a moment. "I think I'd pay money to see that."

"Oh, believe me, it was worth every penny," Sherlock replied with a grin.

Just then, Ryder twitched from his prone position, whimpered, and threw up on Keith's shoes just in time for Sally to reappear with the blanket and the pretty secretary in tow.

_Urgh… oh, God, it's in my _socks_… and it's _chunky_… and _warm_… _

"Bad luck, Anderson," said John cheerfully.

_Did the universe always hate me, or is it just this bloody case?_

SHSHSHSHSH

Yes, I do greatly dislike Anderson; how could you tell?

"Handbags at dawn" – a minor conflict blown out of proportion, for those readers not familiar with the phrase. Comes from the old stereotypes of women fighting by hitting each other with their handbags and starting duels at dawn to settle disputes.

Please, someone out there that is better at either drawing or PhotoShop than I am – Pic of Moustache Mycroft? Pretty please? Bonus points for a little twiddly Poirot-style number. Or the one off the Go Compare man.


	13. Very Good

Um... Hi! (Ducks flying fruit and chorus of people shouting 'where the hell have you been?')

Err, yeah, bit of a hiatus, real life got a bit hectic there for a while, and then I wasn't really in the mood to write about murder, what with the multiple funerals and all. Sorry.

Anyway, back now, so on with the story...

SHSHSHSHSH

Chapter 13: Very Good

_Say what you like about John Watson,_ Lestrade thought wryly, torn between amusement and an even stronger than usual urge to arrest Sherlock for having entirely too much fun at a crime scene. _He does have a bit of a way with words. _

The Doctor had helped his patient roll away from the pool of sick and was once again crouching by Ryder's side, administering water and a near-continuous soothing murmur to coax the man gently back to consciousness while keeping a sharp eye on his health.

Sherlock, meanwhile, wasn't even bothering to be subtle about the fact that he was snapping multiple pictures of Anderson's messy plight on his phone. _He couldn't look happier if it was a quintuple axe murder in the front window of Hamley's half an hour before closing on Christmas Eve without a single eye witness. _

The luckless Forensics officer, wearing an expression somewhere between humiliated, repulsed and homicidal, took one large, exaggerated step backwards out of the puddle and visibly cringed at the wet, sucking squelch as he put his weight back on his ruined shoes.

_Probably crushed some of the chunks between his toes… happened to me a few times on a Friday night when I was still walking a beat. The general public does not appreciate just what we coppers go through to maintain law and order in this city. Especially when it happens at the start of an eight hour shift so it has time to cool and get crusty round the edges before you can properly wash it off_…

Donovan, with her typical tact and diplomacy, practically snarled, "Grow up, Freak!" while she retrieved gloves and a big evidence bag out of the forensics kit for Anderson to deposit the remains of what had once been expensive footwear.

_If Sherlock smirks any harder, that receding chin of his is going to drop right off. _

"Bit on the not good side, Sherlock," John advised him quietly, while Ryder sipped weakly at the water bottle. "Vomit isn't _that_ funny."

"Oh, don't be so doctorish, John," his friend replied flippantly, seemingly incapable of true annoyance for the moment. "After all, if anyone exists to serve as a sick bag for arrestees on a crime scene, who better than Anderson? It's not like he's any good at his actual _job_."

"At least some of us_ have_ an actual job, for an actual wage, instead of letting Daddy's money pay for everything and chasing panda cars for fun!" Keith retorted, alarmingly purple blotches beginning to form on the unbruised sections of his face. "So unless you want a puke-filled size ten to your oversized nose, I suggest you shut it!" He waved a sicky shoe threateningly in his latex-gloved hand.

"Please; the day I can't dodge a missile thrown by you is the day I shoot myself in the head…"

"And that's supposed to be a _deterrent_?"Anderson snapped, drawing back his arm to throw.

"Oi!" Lestrade swiftly intervened. "No throwing things at crime scenes, you two! Especially not things likely to drip puke on evidence. Or me."

"_I'm_ not throwing anything," Sherlock replied childishly.

"No, but you are presenting an irresistible target," John informed him briskly. "Come on then, tell me how you worked out that lorry was smuggling Semtex, when not even Ryder knew."

"Couldn't be anything else," Sherlock replied smugly. "The wrapping must have split on one of the packages in transit, so when they were unloaded, traces of the contents were left behind inside the box. The reddish brown colour eliminates most nitrogen-based explosives, which leaves Semtex as the most likely candidate."

Keith looked up from peeling a saturated sock loose between thumb and forefinger, even through a double layer of latex gloves. "It could be anything!" He snarled. "Blood, fruit, rust…"

"And yet again, Anderson, you conclusively prove the continued presence of Neanderthal DNA in the modern human population," Sherlock announced derisively. "Have you even _looked_ at the traces? The texture is too smooth and clay-like to be rust, and it hasn't oxidised or flaked like blood would have in the seventy two hours or so since the lorry was unloaded. Fruit would give off a smell, sweetness if fresh or decay if old, but this is completely scentless."

"Scentless?" John piped up. "Semtex smells of almonds."

"How in the hell d'you know what Semtex smells like?" Sally demanded.

"Even army doctors have to be trained to recognise IEDs," Watson replied mildly. "The manufacturers are legally required to mix some kind of perfumed chemical into all plastic explosives so sniffer dogs can detect them; and whatever they use smells like almonds. Put me off marzipan for life."

Sherlock grinned delightedly at John. "Absolutely correct. Since 1990, all batches of Semtex produced in the licensed factory in the Czech Republic have been mixed with detection taggants, most commonly p-mononitrotoluene; which does indeed smell similar to almonds. This sample of Semtex, however, does not, which means…?"

"It… was made before 1990?" The doctor hazarded.

"Possibly; but the shelf life of Semtex is usually only about five to ten years, depending on storage conditions."

"Then… you think it's a DIY version, not from the factory?"

"Well done, John!" Sherlock exclaimed delightedly. "To determine the answer for certain will require some reasonably stringent testing by a _competent_ chemist…" he shot a glare at Anderson. "But that can wait for now. We have an assassin to catch."

"Wait, assassin?" Lestrade asked, trying to follow Sherlock's train of thought. "What assassin?"

"The assassin hired by Mr Ryder's employers to poison Dave Agini, obviously, before he could expose their very profitable operation. _Honestly_, Lestrade, haven't you been listening? I suppose I should be accustomed to your complete lack of anything even remotely resembling intelligence by now, but..."

Greg opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor beat him to it.

"Yes, we know, all us mere mortals should bow down and worship at the altar of your vastly superior intellect," John cut his flatmate off, not without a touch of wry fondness. "Give me a hand helping Mr Ryder up, would you?"

Sherlock, unbelievably, actually stopped mid insult, completely derailed by the unexpected compliment. _Blimey; is that really all Sherlock needs to head off one of his ten minute monologues on the stupidity of the entire human population other than him? Just someone agreeing that he's clever, even as flippantly as that? Bloody hell; how did John manage to work that out in a couple of weeks when I haven't managed it in _five sodding years?_ I've probably wasted a week of my life just listening to Sherlock berate me when I could've patted him on the head, said '_oo's a clever boy den?'_ and got a proper explanation in a quarter of the time. _

The mollified Consulting Detective was actually preening slightly at the praise, his attention redirected to his crouching flatmate. "What? Why?"

"Because we need to get him inside and comfortable before he can start answering the shed-load of questions you probably have for him," John replied sensibly. "And I'm not exactly at full strength at the moment."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary. Here will do." Sherlock crouched in front of the pale and clammy criminal, gaining eye contact before he began his interrogation. "Who is your employer? You're not nearly clever enough to think all this up on your own; who is it? Tell me!"

The already grey and shaky Mr Ryder, now sitting propped up against John's least injured side, swayed alarmingly as he sputtered in response.

"_No_, Sherlock." If John's voice had been commanding in Doctor mode, now it was the slamming of steel doors on a bank vault. Lestrade was left in no doubt that he was looking at Captain Watson, RAMC.

"No?" The Consulting Detective questioned, faintly nonplussed. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean that I will not allow you to interrogate any patient of mine until I am satisfied that they are fit to answer you," Watson replied, spine straight as a ruler despite his awkward, half-sitting position as he glared up at his lanky flatmate.

_Bloody hell, he's really going to try ordering Sherlock Holmes to be patient while he's on a case. It's like watching a spaniel trying to stare down a wolf; you know the poor sod's going to be torn apart, but you have to admire his balls for trying. _

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, staring at the shorter man down the full length of his nose. "Allow? You won't _allow_ it?" He repeated, public school arrogance dripping from every word. "I may be permitting you to tag along in my investigations, _Doctor_, but do not even for one moment think that entitles you to tell me how to carry them out. _Don't _get delusions of grandeur; you may be slightly less dense than the vast majority of the population, but you're still an _idiot_. You are here at my discretion; and if I decide you are in my way, I can and _will_ have you removed."

_Ouch. Wolf one, spaniel nil. Give it up, John, you've made your point; not your fault he's medically incapable of listening. _

John blinked rapidly, but was otherwise outwardly unmoved. "Well, that is… that's true, isn't it," He replied, in his normal mild tones. "As your _flatmate_, I have no authority whatsoever on a crime scene, or over your work."

Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Good, just so long as that's clear…"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," John cut him off loudly and firmly, without taking his eyes off Sherlock's. "As Mr Ryder's _attending physician_, you can consider this my official notice that he is not presently fit for questioning following his unexpected loss of consciousness and I will sign any paperwork you want to produce to that effect."

_Well, well. The spaniel just turned out to be a Rottweiler in disguise. And he remembered that I'm actually the one in charge around here, no matter how often Sherlock likes to pretend otherwise. I am _impressed;_ although Sherlock clearly isn't, considering he's looking at John like he told on him to Mummy._

"No paperwork necessary, Doctor," Greg answered with a grin. "It's not like he's going anywhere."

"What?" Sherlock blurted, turning his wounded expression on the DI now. Greg would almost have believed it, if he weren't so intimately familiar with Sherlock's formidable skills at projecting faked emotions to get his own way. "Don't be stupid, Lestrade; John's a retired surgeon, he can't sign sick notes for criminals…"

"Watch me," Watson replied assertively. "I'm a doctor treating a patient; doesn't matter if we're in Bart's A&E or a cold car park in Tilbury. He's fit to be questioned when I say so and not before."

"I'd bow to Doctor Watson's superior medical knowledge if I were you, Sherlock," Lestrade added, trying not to sound too amused and not entirely succeeding. "I'm told he's _very_ good. Besides, I'm not sure Mr Ryder here could tell us what he had for breakfast coherently at the moment."

"Bacon baguette and a double espresso, judging from the state of Anderson's shoes," Sherlock snapped back. "I don't need _coherent_, Inspector, all I need is a _name_."

"Then you'll have to find something to amuse yourself with for half an hour 'till John's finished," Greg replied, unimpressed. "I'm certain you can manage, clever bloke like you…"

In typical drama queen fashion, Sherlock shot him a glare and flounced off, coat flapping around his knees. _Ah. Apparently, that trick only works when it's coming from John. Bugger. _

In the end, Lestrade and Sally between them had to help the weak and shaky Mr Ryder back to his office, closely watched by John, clearly still in Doctor mode. The miserable Anderson had to remain with the evidence vehicle to maintain the chain of custody, although he was mostly focussed on attempting to wash off his now bare feet with the remains of Ryder's water bottle while avoiding standing on anything sharp.

Watson, with his personal brand of firm but reasonable determination Greg imagined the Army were sorely missing, settled his patient into his office chair with the blanket round his shoulders, sent the secretary to make him a cup of hot sweet tea and refused point blank to allow Sherlock anywhere near until he pronounced himself satisfied that the man was recovered from his fainting fit.

The Consulting Detective spent the time pacing impatiently just outside the building, stabbing angrily at his phone with one hand as the other ruffled agitatedly through his curls in frustration. So much so, in fact, that when John finally texted him to come in after twenty five minutes, Sherlock practically exploded through the office door and nearly sent his intended victim into a relapse.

"Who was it?" He demanded, all but vibrating with impatience as he slammed his palms flat on the desktop, making even Lestrade jump. "Tell me, who approached you?"

"_Sherlock_," the Detective Inspector admonished exasperatedly. "Mr Ryder, can you tell us how long the smuggling has been going on?"

"Oh, god… oh, Jesus Christ…," The man stuttered, dropping his flushed forehead into shaking hands. "It wasn't my idea, any of it, I swear it wasn't."

"Of course it wasn't," Sherlock agreed, "you're quite clearly an idiot. So, who?"

"It all started a couple of years ago, when the recession first kicked in. We were going under, losing contracts hand over fist; near enough everyone we worked for was going bust and there were so many debts… I had to lay off good, loyal staff left, right and centre. We lost drivers, mechanics, half the warehouse boys, all the cleaners; even the tea girl."

"And then I got a phone call, just before I was going to call in the insolvency lawyers. An investment group called Jupiter Integrated Management wanted to buy forty nine percent of the company, for well over the market value. I'd still have control of the day to day running of the business, keep it in the family's hands, but with a massive cash injection… It was like a gift from above, the answer to all my problems."

"But in return, they wanted you to smuggle for them," John interjected calmly.

"They said they owned a lot of small businesses that they wanted to get special rates on low-volume deliveries. I knew it was too good to be true, but how could I say no? The only other option was to file for bankruptcy and let five generation's work go down the plughole. Anyway, there wasn't anything on paper that would flag up in an audit; it was just that on those deliveries, the driver would be asked to make a short detour, or stop at a certain services or lay-by at a certain time to take something… extra. That's why only my most trusted drivers got those jobs…"

"Like David Agini," Lestrade prompted.

"Yeah, like Dave. Bloody good driver; and he wasn't fussy about why he got a bonus for picking up something that might be… a bit dodgy."

Sherlock somehow managed to snort with elegance. "Yes, I'm certain wife-beating cancer-riddled alcoholics make ideal employees in the haulage business," he said derisively. "Right up until the point when Agini threatened to blow the whistle on your investors, I imagine?"

"It... It was last week, just before he went out on the Spanish job. Dave turned up in my office and said he wanted a million quid by the time he got back or he was going to the police. I tried to reason with him, but he said he'd never live long enough to see the inside of a cell if he didn't have the cash to buy a new pair of lungs from some dodgy clinic in Brazil."

"So, you picked up the phone to your masters and they promised to take care of it?"

"Not the phone; never spoke to anyone directly after that first call. Everything was arranged by email; I emailed back to ask what I should do… The reply said they were going to pay Dave off; called it 'health insurance' and said I should concentrate on running the legit side of the firm. As far as I knew, that was that. I swear, I didn't know they were going to kill him! I would never have got involved in anything like that; I just wanted to save my business!"

"And I'm certain once the Fraud squad have spent six months picking through every last invoice, they'll agree you've done a marvellous job," Sherlock drawled. "Who did the installation of the roof compartments?"

"Jupiter sent their own people. The paperwork's all in the files as a refit of all the vehicles."

"And the peppermint oil? That would need to be refreshed fairly regularly as the smell faded, who did that?"

"By the time I signed the deal, I'd had to let all non-essential staff go. Jupiter lined me up with some outside contractors to fill the gaps. Accountants, administrative staff, caterers, and…"

"Valets," Sherlock declared triumphantly. "Brilliant. They refreshed the peppermint oil while they cleaned the lorries and no one was any the wiser."

"Their girls are bloody good cleaners, I know that. They do the office space and the workshops too; ten times better than the old lot."

Anderson knocked and opened the office door. "Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but the recovery vehicle's arrived and every uniform within a ten mile radius has been called in to secure the site..."

"Right," Lestrade replied. "Donovan, go and get things organised; I don't want a single vehicle leaving this site..."

"Oh, God, no..." The sheer horror in Ryder's voice immediately drew all eyes to the small man.

"That's what I think every time I see Anderson," Sherlock remarked. "Maybe you're not quite as stupid as I thought..."

"Bozo the clown..." Ryder continued, terrified. "Oh, God, _please_, not the... _balloon animals._.."

_Clown? Well... If I squint a bit... That bruising on Anderson's face is getting very colourful... And the crime scene cleanshoes he's layered on to protect his feet are very long and pointy... He does look sort of like the most pathetic circus clown in history... Especially with that expression on his face... _

John limped swiftly around the desk to block Ryder's view of Anderson, reaching out to take his pulse and applying his inner wrist to the man's forehead to assess his temperature.

"Lestrade, call an ambulance, now," he said authoritatively.

Greg had his phone in hand and halfway to his ear before he remembered to ask. "What? Why?"

"Anticholergic toxidrome?" Sherlock answered for him, looking to John for confirmation.

The doctor nodded briskly, still focussed on his patient. "Looks like it."

"How long from ingestion to symptoms manifesting?" Sherlock barked.

"Half an hour? At the very most." John glanced up just in time to see Sherlock's eyes widen before he was gone in a swirl of coat, shoving past Anderson in the doorway and legging it towards the reception desk.

"Hey!" The luckless Forensics officer protested as he caught himself on the door frame. "What's got his knickers in a twist this time?"

"Ryder said his smuggling bosses supplied his administrative staff. Presumably, including the secretary who made that tea I just prescribed," John replied grimly. "She must have dosed it."

"Oh, God..." Anderson managed. "The redhead? She just rolled out a big tea urn and loads of biscuits to all the uniforms outside..."

"Jesus Christ!" Exclaimed Lestrade, already charging outside with Donovan at his heels. _Fifty uniforms standing around in a lorry park on a freezing cold day presented with free hot drinks and biscuits? We should count ourselves lucky if there's _crumbs_ left by the time we get to them!_

The last thing he heard as he left the room was Watson calling after him. "We're going to need a lot more than one ambulance! And find me somewhere I can use for triage!"

_You think you've got problems, Doctor, _Greg thought grimly. _I've got to get between members of Her Majesty's Constabulary and their_ tea._ It had bloody well _better_ turn out to be poisoned, or the union are going to crucify me... _

SHSHSHSHSH

Anyone worked out the acronym of Jupiter Integrated Management yet? Yes? Good. I think you can all see where this is going, although I plan to slot it into cannon just prior to The Blind Banker so the man himself won't actually be making an appearance. Probably.

Also, for non-UK readers, the thing about the British and tea? True. Frighteningly so. We drink 60 billion cups a year between us, hence why we also get through so much milk. (Contrary to Hollywood opinion, almost nobody drinks Earl Grey. PG Tips, Tetley, Twinings, or Yorkshire Tea, absolutely.)

Let me know what you thought...


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